as certain dark things are loved
by Call-Me-Crazy.Cuz I Am
Summary: {Nothing will ever overwhelm the sheer amount of everything she feels when she looks at him, his eyes twinkling and shining and true. Everything is in him, and he is in her, and there is a part of her that could never bear to lose him.} Because somehow they always find each other, in a thousand different ways and a thousand different lifetimes. / Mabastian AU one-shots./
1. Chapter 1

**A.N. Lyrics from (italiczied thingies) from John Mayer's 'Edge Of Desire'. Poetry is by Pablo Neruda, and pretty much symbolizes Mabastain (at least in my opinion :D). **

**I don't actually know what this is. It formed while I was watching Downton Abbey, and now it's a fully-fledged ficlet and i'm just going to publish it and let you guys tell me what you think. Okay? Okay. **

**this is an AU in which Mary and Francis do indeed get married, but Mary never gets over Bash, so they eventually get together and start...i suppose i'll call it an extra-maritial affair? **

**Anyway, I hope you like! **

**READ AND REVIEW, PLEASE.**

* * *

_I do not love you as if you were salt-rose, or topaz,  
or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off.  
I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,  
in secret, between the shadow and the soul._

_I love you as the plant that never blooms_  
_but carries in itself the light of hidden flowers;_  
_thanks to your love a certain solid fragrance,_  
_risen from the earth, lives darkly in my body._

_I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where._  
_I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride;_  
_so I love you because I know no other way_

_than this: where I does not exist, nor you,_  
_so close that your hand on my chest is my hand,_  
_so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep._

_- Pablo Neruda_

* * *

**i. **_young, and full of running; tell me where is that taking me? just a great figure eight or a tiny infinity..._

* * *

_A woman is to be faithful to her husband, obedient to him in all ways. She is to save herself for him and keep herself for him, lest she soil her reputation and her marriage bed._

_A woman is to love none but her husband, and to lay with none but him._

(Oh, if only.)

(If. Only.)

* * *

_i want you so bad i'll go back on the things i believe._

* * *

Mary Stuart, Queen of Scots, prides herself on being a good Catholic girl, one always goes to Mass and Confession, who prays every night. Two months ago, her one failing was that she had consummated her marriage before it actually occurred, but the priest absolved her, and God forgives, after all.

But Sebastian Du Poitiers is her one everlasting failure, and she doubts she will ever be cleansed of him.

She wishes she did not want this, and she most certainly did not plan it; it is against everything she has been taught since she was a small child, and she feels it like a stain on her immortal soul.

But no matter how large the stain grows, it will never overwhelm the sheer amount of everything she feels as she looks across the pillow and sees his dark hair on her sheets, his bare form entangled in hers, his eyes twinkling and shining and true.

(Everything is in him, and he is in her, and there is a part of her, a selfish sinner within her, that could not bear to lose him.)

* * *

_love is really nothing but a dream that keeps waking me. for all of my trying, we still end up dying. how can it be?_

* * *

One of the king's favored is getting married, and Henry throws the wedding at court; it's big and lavish and Francis spends the whole time flirting with a courtesan whose breasts are practically falling out of her tightly-laced dress, so Mary feels justified in saving two dances for Bash.

(As much justification as she has, she still feels a guilty flutter of lust when his arms go around her, and she can't stop herself from picturing herself in his chambers.

In his bed.)

The orchestra strikes up the tune, a lively dancing song, and Bash pulls her perhaps a bit too close to avoid suspicion (she can't bring herself to care, quite honestly) and the scruff on his chin tickles his ear when he whispers to her.

Dancing with Bash is always an exhilarating experience, because it is _never_ just dancing.

When he twirls her, she feels her world fall away, and when he pulls her flush against him, her body fitting with his in every possible way, heedless of the eyes that watch them, she feels her knees buckle beneath her until she thinks she could melt into a quivering puddle and mind it not all the while.

He knows _exactly_ what he is doing to her, as he holds her this close, rocks her as gently as this. He looks deep into her eyes, and she sees in his blue depths a challenge, an unspoken word.

Mary is described by anyone who knows her as head-strong and stubborn, so she answers his challenge by holding him just as close, digging her fingernails slightly into his back, reveling in the hitch in his breath, and the way he looks down at her promises retribution later that night.

(This is a complicated and twisted game they play, all full of signals and looks and-

And promises, because Bash has never broken a promise to her, and that means more to her than any of Francis's endearments.)

* * *

_don't say a word, just come over and lie here with me. because i'm just about to set fire to everything i see._

* * *

(Later that night, she will follow him into his chambers –Francis is with the blonde courtesan, and no one will miss her tonight in the confusion of the wedding- and she will kiss his teasing words off of his mouth, and he will chase her doubts away with a single touch of his hips to hers, because theirs is a love that was made to help them forget, and that is exactly what they need.)

* * *

Sophia De La Montag comes to Court; she is tall and fair and beautiful, and she fancies herself in love with Bash, draping herself over him fetchingly and quite inconveniently "appearing" whenever Mary and Bash are together, and Mary does not appreciate it.

Whatsoever.

At all.

Period.

She tries not to let her irritation show in public, and instead marks him as hers when they are alone, makes sure that he will never forget her as Francis has.

He laughs at her jealousy as they lay next to each other, sweat-covered, chests rising in unison. He holds her to him tenderly and whispers in her ear that she is adorable when she pouts.

"I am not pouting," She tells him drowsily, swatting at his nose. "I simply don't like her."

"You have no reason to," He replies. "I am yours."

She looks at him deeply, searching his eyes for any sign of doubt or hidden fear. "Truly and completely?"

"Truly and completely," He promises. "I would give you anything within my power. Grant you any wish."

"What if I wished for you to leave me, and never return?" She asks, and she feels him tense.

"Ah, but that is out of my control," Bash teases her. "I could no sooner leave you than I could leave my heart. My love for you is out of my power; I am simply subjected to its will."

His words ignite something in her, a warm fire that is consuming and saving at the same time.

"Will you still feel this way, ten years from now?" She asks him as she rolls on top of him, his hands coming to rest at the bare curve of her waist. "Will you still love me as such once the forbidden thrill wears off?"

He presses a kiss to the inside of her wrist. "Will the sun still hang? Will the stars still shine? For my love for you is as steady as the universe, and forever insatiable. Mary," He whispers, looking into her eyes. "I will never grow tired of you."

(And this is it; this is why he hold a part of her Francis never will, because as the heir to a throne Mary has spent her entire life preparing for possible futures and eventualities and things. She has spent every waking moment preparing for changes, but Bash is constant, and in his consistency lies everything.

He is the stars and the sun, heavy in the sky, he is the force that pulls the river downstream and holds the trees to the earth. He is everything around her, and he is within her so completely that she cannot breathe, cannot function, does not exist without him.

This love that she feels is all-encompassing, and Mary has given up trying to escape it, because-

Bash is_ gravity_, and without him there is no sense to the world.)

* * *

_so young, and full of running. all the way to the edge of desire. steady my breathing, silently screaming, 'I have to have you now.' _

* * *

When she wakes up the next morning he is there, and she thinks that she has slept too long and should make her escape.

His hair is askew and his eyes are shut fast and he is dark against the white of her bed.

He is dark against the white of her immortal soul, and his love is an inkblot that will never wipe off, and she will not even try.

He is one sin she refuses to be absolved of, one confession she will never say the Rosary for.

(She never wishes to be free of him, and if this is the sin that will damn her to hell-

She will wait for him there.)

* * *

_I want you so bad, I'll go back on the things I believe. So, there, I just said it. _

_( I'm scared you'll forget about me.) _


	2. Chapter 2

**A.N. So i have an obscene amount of au reign one-shots in my fanfiction folder, so I think i'm going to turn this into a sort of...one-shot collection (if that's agreeable to all you lovely people ;D) PLEASE LET ME KNOW IF YOU LIKE IT IN A REIVEW! Thanks to everyone who has reviewed, followed, anf favorited already! :D**

**This is a company au, in which King Henry and Queen Catherine are Mr. and Mrs Dauphin, heads of the French branch of Monarchial Industries, and Mary is the head of the Scottish company Stuart and Co. **

**Enjoy! **

* * *

**ii. **_Out of the doubt that fills my mind..._

* * *

The first time she sees him, ever, he is bounding into the elevator, sloshing coffee dangerously near his wrinkled white shirt, and he taps his foot _incessantly_.

"What floor?" She asks him, trying not to let his unpressed shirt bother her.

"Ten," He says, and she notices that his eyes are almost unfairly blue.

"I'm going to ten as well," She tells him, and his resulting grin noticeably brightens the elevator. "I've got a meeting."

"I need to talk to my- Mr. Dauphin," He replies. "He's spent too much time without me, poor man."

"He must be lonely," She says as the elevator clicks past the third floor.

"He can't be that lonely, or he'd have already slept with one of the secretaries," He says cheerfully. "As far as I know, he's not that far gone yet."

Mary blushes red, thinks of her friend Kenna, who's already slept with Mr. Dauphin twice, and bites her lip.

"_Oh_. Shit," The stranger says. "I didn't mean- I didn't know- If sleeping with the boss is your thing, don't let me stop you. Do what you want with your body and all that."

"It's _not_. I mean, _I'm_ not. I'm not even a secretary," She stammers out, and the elevator doors open.

"Good," He says as he walks out. "Because I was actually starting to kind of like you."

Mary stares after him, and when Francis comes up behind her to kiss her a minute later, she jumps.

* * *

The meeting is standard for the Dauphin family; Mr. Dauphin swears and drinks four glasses of brandy, Mrs. Dauphin looks disapprovingly at all of them and shakes her perfect blonde head, and Francis makes funny faces at Mary until she has to physically bite her lip to stop her laughter.

And then, fifteen minutes late, in waltzes the man from the elevator.

(His shirt, thankfully, is pressed now.)

"Good morning, all," He says cheerfully, bounding in and falling into the chair next to Francis's. "How are we doing?"

"You're late, Sebastian," Mr. Dauphin says fondly, and-

Are those laugh lines appearing around his eyes?

(Mary doesn't even know Sebastian, but damn, if he can do that to Mr. Dauphin, he's got her vote.

Ten freakin' times over.)

"Got held up earlier, and then the elevator-" He looks around and seemingly notices her for the first time. "Dude! I know you. I met you in the elevator! I-Am-Not-A-Secretary!"

"That's very true," She laughs, and extends her hand for a shake. "Mary Stuart. Head of Stuart and Co."

"Ms. Stuart, meet my son," Mr. Dauphin says, a hint of pride in his voice. "Sebastian. Sebastian, Ms. Stuart. Do you remember the merger we've been discussing?"

(Mary doesn't miss the furrow that appears in Catherine's brow.)

"Oh. _Oh_," Sebastian says, and he flashes her an absolutely shit-eating grin. "_That_ Mary Stuart. Pleasure to have you on board."

"Pleasure is mine," She replies. "I'm sorry, I didn't know Mr. Dauphin had another son so close to Francis's age."

"That's because he's not my son," Mrs. Dauphin spits out, venom coloring her tone, and Mr. Dauphin shoots her a look that says very clearly, _We're not talking about this right now._

"Anyway," Sebastian cuts in smoothly, "What's this I hear about interest on out-of state exports?"

* * *

After the meeting's over, Francis takes her to Sebastian's apartment, because apparently tonight is Video Game Night, and Sebastian is really done with it being ignored, and-

And she has never in her life seen a man's apartment that is this _perfectly_ color-coordinated.

(_Damn it all to hell_, she thinks, _he's totally gay_.)

(And then she gets mad at herself, because not all gay people have to be perfectly color coordinated, of course, and not all straight men have to have terrible color coordination, and she's playing into the ignorance of society by thinking that, and really, she shouldn't even care, because if he's gay or straight, it doesn't change the fact that _she's dating Francis_.

But she still hopes he's not gay.)

Francis goes into the kitchen for beers and chips, and Mary watches Sebastian fiddle with the X-Box.

(He's got really long fingers, almost like a pianist's)

"Damn thing's terribly hard to work with," he says conversationally as he bangs the machine with his palm a couple of times. "But I'm way too sentimental to part with it."

"Sentimentality isn't a bad thing," Mary says diplomatically, twirling a piece of hair through her hands.

"Eh," Bash shrugs, smiling when the X-Box roars to life. "It's neutral, depends on how you take it. Most things are."

Francis comes back in when two beers and an _"Oh, Mary, I didn't think you'd want one,"_ and Mary suppresses her irritation by pondering over his half-brother's words.

* * *

Sebastian (she knows now that he likes to be called Bash) starts showing up for every Thursday meeting.

(Even if he's never on time to the meetings, she likes that he's there.

If only because he makes Mr. Dauphin seem more human, and it's fun to watch him piss Mrs. Dauphin off.)

* * *

It's funny, but Bash becomes the fastest friend she has ever had.

Mary isn't bad at making friends, not at all (she's actually good at it), but Bash has this way of penetrating every thing she does, saying what she's thinking before she does, and it takes too much energy to _not_ like him.

He's so brave, and he's smart, but, she thinks as she watches him make paper airplanes with one of the secretary's son, he wouldn't make a good CEO.

For one thing, he's too honest. Bash says what he feels and does what he wants, and pays the consequences later; he's all recklessness, and he rarely thinks before he acts.

And for the second...

Francis has made it abundantly clear to her that he loves her, but if he has to choose, he's picking the company. And it's not a pleasant bit of knowledge, but it's something she understands.

(She thinks that at the end of the day, she'd probably do the same thing.)

But sometimes Bash's cousin and her daughter come to Video Game Night, and when Mary looks at him around them, she knows that he could never make that choice.

He could never pick something that wasn't them.

(She thinks that maybe she wants desperately for someone to always choose _her_.)

* * *

"Ah, Bash," Mr. Dauphin says dryly as Bash jogs into the meeting room. "You're late. How very in character."

"Gee, thanks, Dad," Bash deadpans back, sliding into his seat. "Love you, too."

Francis's features tighten, and Mary understands, because even though Henry Dauphin chastises Sebastian, he loves his bastard son in a way that he will never love his legitimate one, and it kills Francis and his mother.

"You interrupted our discussion on the employee pay raise," Mrs. Dauphin snaps at him.

"Aw," Bash pouts and swipes Mary's coffee from her hand with a glint in his eyes. "My _sincerest_ apologies."

"Don't drink so sloppily," Mary tells him, taking her coffee back after he gulps half of it down. "You'll stain your shirt."

"Noted, Mommy Number Two," Bash grins his shit-eating grin at her and takes another sip of her coffee. "You put too much sugar in it."

"Don't steal it, then," Mary narrows her eyes at him. "Careful. I'll tell Isabelle you're being mean."

"She'll congratulate me." Bash replies, and raises her coffee cup to her in a mock toast.

"You're cheeky," She says with joking disapproval, and he smirks at her.

"_If_ we could continue," Mr. Dauphin says pointedly, as Mrs. Dauphin's eyes flit back and forth between Mary and Bash.

Bash's eyes linger on her, and Mary sees laughter in them.

Surprisingly, they make her want to laugh, too.

(And the third reason Bash wouldn't make a good CEO: his every thought, feeling, and wish is on display in his crystal blue eyes.

It's not that he's no good at disguising himself; he's just never felt the need to.)

* * *

Francis's old secretary, Olivia D'Amencourt, comes back to the office, and the woman makes her feel slimy and gross, especially since she looks at Francis like she'd bang his brains out against the elevator door if he'd let her.

(Which he totally won't, because Francis is in love with Mary.

Right?)

And Mary isn't one of those girls that needs to call her boyfriend every other second like, "Hey, boyfriend, I hear that you've been breathing the same air as another female, and I'm here to tell you to _handle that shit_ because that is not okay. Love ya!", but Olivia (Or 'Liv', as she prefers) wears pencil skirts that could conceivably pass for thongs and white shirts that are much too tight to count as work clothes, and she_ just makes Mary uncomfortable_.

And then there's the whole reason she left the office to begin with.

Olivia D'Amencourt, top-of-class graduate from Yale, brimming with potential and possibilities, staggering with the weight of countless job offers.

Olivia D'Amencourt, the unfortunate secretary who gets caught banging her boss on the table, and not only runs from the company in shame, but can't find another job.

Anywhere.

Olivia D'Amencourt, who comes back with her tail between her legs and Francis wrapped around all of her perfectly manicured fingers and makes it quite obvious that she's planning a Frary homewreck of massive proportions.

(Yeah, Mary's just a little angry with Francis right now.)

* * *

Francis starts skipping Video Game Night, but by the time he starts bailing Mary and Bash are already friends, so she comes anyway and tries to beat Bash's high score.

(Which is quite possibly impossible, because when it comes to Link's sword in the Legend of Zelda, Bash is _deadly_.)

But then Francis's absence stretches out longer and longer, and he starts working later and later with Olivia, so Video Game Night turns into Movie Night, and Mary starts legitimately worrying about her boyfriend's fidelity.

Bash tells when they're watching Scary Movie IV that she's got no reason to be angry.

"I've got _every_ reason," She replies, shifting the popcorn bowl closer to her and taking a massive swig from the beer in Bash's hand. "He was…_canoodling._ With his secretary."

Bash nods. "So it seems."

"Well, there's a better than naught chance that he's missed banging her while we were together, since I'm _not_ a slut like she is."

Bash nods again. "Very logical assumption."

"And that means he's been thinking about cheating, and cheating is something I absolutely cannot stand, whatsoever-" She breaks off when she sees Bash's poor attempts at hiding his laughter.

"Why are you laughing?" She says crossly. "I'm ranting, over here."

"It's just," He speaks through chuckles. "You seriously think you've got something to worry about, don't you?"

"I _do_ have something to worry about-"

"No, you don't," Bash laughs, and brushes a stray piece of hair out of her face. "Mary. _Darling_. Friend. Comrade. You gotta know, Francis is lucky as hell just to have you. No way is he ever going to wander, because there's nothing better than you out there. You're beautiful, and funny, and sweet, and kind, and Francis knows that any man is beyond lucky to have you."

Mary stares at him, and she sees in his eyes that he means everything he says.

(She sees something else, too, but she doesn't want to name it.)

And maybe it's because she's a little tipsy, but she can't fathom how she never saw him like this before, and the only acceptable action left is to kiss him and be done with it.

(It isn't just a kiss, though, because Bash is the best kind of addictive, and Mary has never been good at saying no.)

"That was really wrong," she says, breathless, when she pulls away.

"Quite," He replies, with his shit-eating grin, and proceeds to kiss her again.

* * *

She ignores him after that night, or at least she tries to.

(She hopes he understands why.)

But she can't forget him because-

Because she dearly loves Francis, but he is all rational thought and calculation, even when it comes to sex, and his father is diplomatic and calm, and his mother is bat-shit crazy, but strategically, and it seems that Bash is the only one in the whole damn family with that kind of passion, and Mary craves it. Longs for it.

(Maybe even dreams of it.)

* * *

"It's okay, you know," Bash tells her after a Thursday meeting. "You don't have to hide from me."

"I haven't been-" Mary begins protesting, but then breaks off, because dammit, he's right. "It's just hard."

"It doesn't have to be," Bash looks at her, and his eyes are guarded, and she wants to cry, because he has never been guarded with her before. _Never. _

(and it _hurts_ that she's taken them this far, where he can't even _look_ at her like he used to. Where he can't share every emotion he's feeling with her.

Where he doesn't trust her anymore.)

(He doesn't look at her anymore in the Thursday meetings, and he doesn't drink her coffee anymore, even though she eases up on the sugar.

She _misses_ him.)

* * *

It's two in the morning, and it's not even Video Game Night, but she's banging on the door of Bash's apartment in her nightie like she doesn't even care.

"What the _everlasting_ fu-" Bash begins swearing as he blearily opens the door. "Mary?"

"Yes," She says, and this seemed like a _much_ better idea when she was angrily walking out of Francis's office after seeing him with Liv.

"_What_," He says, and she doesn't miss the gleam in his eyes, "Are you _doing_ here?"

She stares at him, and then, (because she knows by now that he cares about her too much to move first) surges forward, crushing her lips to his.

She pulls away first, breathless, lips swollen, and the look on his face is absolutely priceless.

"Invite me in," She says, and he wordlessly opens his door wider.

* * *

The next morning she throws his shirt on, sits at his kitchen table while he makes her coffee.

"I caught Francis with Liv," She tells him.

"Dumb ass," he says, and slaps the coffee cup in front of her. "Idiot should know, there's no point in trading up when you've got the best model right in front of you."

She swats at him. "You're cheeky."

"You're beautiful," He shoots back with a smirk, and he smiles that shit-eating smile, and Mary thinks that she's not quite sure how it took her that long to realize how amazing he is.

(And then she takes a sip of her coffee and realizes he hasn't put _any_ sugar in it, and as he literally convulses with laughter at the look on her face, she thinks she doesn't remember ever being like this with any other man.

It's a lovely feeling, and Mary decides right then that she's not letting go of it.)

* * *

_...i somehow find you and i..._

_collide._


	3. Chapter 3

**A.N. Hi. **

**So, the first thing i wanna say is that i love every single person who read this story, who added it to their favorites list, who followed it, who reviewed-it's just DA BEST, because I honestly expected this idea to fail, and, well, it's not. **

**Second, THAT EPISODE OF REIGN LAST NIGHT THOUGH. HOW INTENSE WAS THAT. **

**And third-**

**this is a modern day pregnancy au, which literally came out of ABSOLUTELY NOWHERE. i'm still trying to figure out where the hell I got the inspiriation for this :D but while I ponder that, PLEASE leave a review! **

**And number four- **

**this one isn't my favorite, but I'm still in the editing process on the others and wanted to give you guys what i had ready. SO ENJOY IT. **

**Also, prompts are cool, too, if you want a specific AU one-shot :D**

* * *

She cries when the doctor tells her.

She cries because she is happy, but she also cries because she has no idea what she is going to do. She cries because he's the heir to his father's company, and she's just a stupid secretary with a soft spot for blue eyes. She cries because she thinks that she might be in love with him, and that is the worst thing that could have possibly happened.

She cries because she's pregnant, and she has _no_ idea how to tell him.

* * *

(As it turns out, she doesn't have to.)

(Kenna, damn her to hell, saves her the trouble.)

* * *

"Is it true?" He asks her, waiting for her at the coffee shop she frequents, a muffin in both hands. The afternoon light casts a soft glow around his face, highlighting his blue eyes, bright with concern.

(And her heart swells with a… _something_ that is wildly unhelpful.)

"Did you already order?" She evades the question, moves towards the table that's waiting for them. "Because I have to say, I'm feeling a scone, not a muffin, so if you've already-"

A warm, firm hand grabs her upper arm _and_ turns her around to face him, and her blabbering is silenced.

"Kenna told me something today," He says slowly, deliberately. "And I want to know if it's true."

"Kenna tells a lot of people a lot of things." She says, inwardly cursing her friend. "Especially if she's drunk."

"She was extremely sober, which would be shocking, if she hadn't had such interesting news to share." He's not going to give this up, she can tell it in the gentle way he takes her hand. "Mary."

"I'm pregnant," She blurts, and makes a mad dash towards the baked goods counter.

"Holy shit," Bash says to himself, his blue eyes wide, and then he follows her.

* * *

("I want to be involved, he says and laughs delightedly once he gets over the shock.)

(He feels her stomach all over right in the middle of the store.)

(She can't bring herself to care.)

* * *

"Kenna," Greer spits out. "You told _Kenna_ before you told any of us?"

"What the hell does that mean?" Kenna drags a nail file over her already perfectly shaped nails and shoots Greer a threatening look.

They're sitting in Mary's apartment for the weekly Here's What You Missed This Week debriefing of their lives, and Greer looks like she might claw Kenna's perfectly done eyes out.

"It means-" Greer begins.

"That we're extremely happy for you, Mary," Lola cuts in, always the peace-keeper. "It's just a big thing, is all. What does Sebastian think?"

"He's happy," Mary sighs, stirs the packet of sugar Greer gives her into her tea. "But I just. I can't get over all the things to worry about."

"What exactly is there to worry about, Mare-Bear?" Kenna wags the nail file at Mary. "The sexy as I don't even know what heir to a million-dollar company, who has been making googly-eyes at you for over a year, has just knocked you up and therefore tied himself to you for at least eighteen years. Why are we complaining?"

Greer opens her mouth, but Mary cuts her off. "Because, Kenna, I don't _love_ him. And I was _dating his half-brother._"

"Eh." Kenna shrugs. "Love isn't a necessity for happiness, and Francis is a wuss. He needs to get the hell over it."

(Greer nods, agreeing with Kenna for what feels like the first time literally ever, and Mary thinks that if this baby makes them act nicer, it'll be that much more perfect.)

* * *

Bash gets the morning off and they go to the doctor together for her twelve week appointment, and Mary cries when the nurse shows her the _babies_ growing inside her stomach.

Yes, of course.

She's having _twins_.

Because that's just her luck.

But Bash's eyes are shining with what he swears are not tears, and he looks at the ultrasound like it's the Holy Grail, and Mary thinks that there are worse men to get knocked up by.

(If she had any doubts, they're mostly all gone. Mostly.)

* * *

(On the way back from the doctors, she hands him a spare key to her apartment.

"What's this for?" He asks her, twirling it through his fingers.

"In case I ever need you," She replies, and he laughs at her.)

(His laugh is lovely.)

* * *

Francis is furious when he finds out (Damn Kenna to the lowest freakin' layer of hell), but really, that's to be expected. Mary did break off their engagement, after all.

_(Mary still remembers the fights, the tears on her cheeks and Francis, looming and dark, yelling at her. _

_"Can't you see that I don't want to hurt you?" she remembers saying through tears. "Can't you see that I'm trying to help us?" _

_"Can't you see that you've made it so there is no 'us' anymore?" He'd growled back to her, his eyes hurting so much. "We're just business partners.")_

So she could jump into bed.

With his half-brother.

And then she got pregnant, with said half-brother's children (freakin' twins, because apparently Bash doesn't _do_ _anything_ half way).

So, yes, Francis being upset is not an unexpected outcome. What is unexpected is, when Mary goes back to his apartment to apologize for the fifth time the next day, finding him wrapped around his goddamn secretary.

Fucking Olivia.

(Mary _always_ hated that bitch.)

* * *

Her life is not that bad, not even that different really, until the six month mark. There are things that she can't eat, and things she can't do, but that was to be expected.

What she didn't expected, and totally didn't sign up for, is the sixth-month blow out of her stomach and pregnancy hormones/cravings.

She wakes up in the middle of the night ( her beach-ball sized stomach is sore from the kicking) and she grabs her phone and calls him.

"Mary?" He picks up on the fifth ring, and his voice is bleary with sleep. "Are you okay?"

"I want a tamale. Now, please."

Lesser men might inquire where the hell they're supposed to find a tamale at two o' clock in the morning, in freaking Paris, but not Bash. Bash simply breathes into the phone, and then tells her he'll see what he can do.

Two hours later, he's at her apartment, and he's got a dozen tamales, and Mary is so grateful to him she bursts into sobs.

"Of all the men who could've knocked me up," She says through her tears, "You are the _absolute best_."

"Aww, shucks," He rolls his eyes and flops down onto her floor with a smile. "You flatter me so."

(He's fast asleep before she can tell him that she actually meant every single word.)

* * *

When she wakes up the next morning, he is making her omelettes and a mug of peppermint tea sits on her bedside.

"Tea?" Mary wrinkles her noise but sips it anyway.

"You shouldn't have too much caffeine," Bash says, and a little red tinge peeks on his cheeks. "I read it. It's not good for the baby."

"You didn't-" Mary starts, and then he blushes a full red color and she starts laughing. "You read pregnancy books, didn't you?"

"My cousin _just had a baby_-" Bash begins futilely, and then he gives up, because Mary is rolling over with laughter.

"It's so very sweet, I just-" Mary says through giggles, and she imagines him with his feet on his desk, his brow furrowed as he scans the pages of What To Expect When You're Expecting.

(She collapses with laughter again, and Bash refuses to look at her.)

* * *

They go baby-shopping together the next morning, which is much less fun than it sounds, because Mary's feet are sore and Bash has no idea what he's doing.

(He looks at the collection of tiny baby shoes with a mixture of awe and fear, and Mary watches him and feels something stir within her, something warm and yearning, like she could sit and watch him look at baby shoes for all eternity, like she could just _grow old_ looking at him look at those shoes and-

He looks back at her, smiles sheepishly when he realizes that she's been watching him, and she is so full of…._something_ that she can hardly breathe for a second.)

(Damn these pregnancy hormones to hell.)

* * *

She calls Lola as soon as Bash drops her off at her house, not even bothering to close the door, and as much as she loves her friend,, she's absolutely no help.

"Mary," Lola says slowly. "I'm quite confused. You're beginning to feel things for Sebastian, and this is a bad thing?"

"Of course, it's a bad thing," Mary growls into the phone as she rummages through her refrigerator for any left over tamales. "Lola, it wasn't supposed to happen like this!"

"Love doesn't always happen like you want it to, Mary," Lola says wisely. "It just sort of...happens, and then it's there."

"But that's not how it's supposed to happen!" Mary shrieks. "For the longest time, I thought it was supposed to be Francis and I poured everything I had into Francis and now it's like life is LOLing by throwing me a curve ball in the form of Sebastian Du Poitiers!"

"Let's just tackle that demon right now," Lola says, and Mary has never heard her friend sound more like the therapist she is in the twelve years she's known her. "Why do you refer to Bash as a 'curve ball'?"

"Because he's the very thing that I absolutely never thought would happen!" Mary bursts out. "He's, he's brash, and insensitive; he tells people what he really thinks, regardless of tact and- and decorum! And I mean, I don't even know if I believe he'll be able to do the dad thing, because his father-figures were all over the place! And as much as his father loves him, nothing's going to change the fact that he is not a legitimate heir and will only inherit because Francis went and got himself disowned. Everything about him is wrong; he is exactly the kind of man I shouldn't care about. He's the farthest thing in the world from where I should be, where I thought I'd be, where I was supposed to be, and-"

The words _'I think I love him anyway'_ die on her lips as she turns around, and she drops the tamales on the floor.

Because standing in the doorway she forgot to close, holding the purse she forgot she left in his car, is Sebastian.

And she doesn't think she's ever seen anybody so very hurt.

"Bash-" She begins, but he holds his hand up and stops her.

"No." He shakes his head, and that one gesture hurts Mary more than any words he could say.

"You don't know-" She tries again, but once more, he stops her from finishing.

"It's okay, Mary," He says lowly, but his eyes look like she's just ripped his hear out and crushed it in front of him (which she very well might have). "I'm just glad I know where we stand."

"Bash-"

"I really like you, Mary," He says. "And not just 'cause I got you pregnant. I like you because I thought you were amazing, and because I wanted to be with you and be parents. Mom and dad, because I didn't get to have that, and I don't want to be like my father, full of regret over not sticking with his kid. And I thought maybe you wanted that, too, but obviously you don't. And I'm not like Francis, okay? I can't go halvsies. I either I have you or I don't, and obviously I don't, so we can just be like my dad and Catherine, okay? We can just be co-parents. Business partners."

(There's that term again, those words Francis used to throw in her face. _Business partners_.)

(_No,_ she wants to scream at him. _Please, don't shut me out, please don't leave, please don't give up on me._)

(Instead, she lets him leave.)

* * *

(And isn't it all _the most bitter_ _form of irony_ because her whole life, people have been leaving her and he was the _only one_ who stayed, and she _still_ managed to chase him away.

It's such irony, because her mother told her that i_t's okay to hurt people, as long as you gain something from their pain,_ and here Mary is, pregnant,sort-of alone, and ripping out hearts right and left, and she can't _fathom_ what she gained from this.)

(Truth be told, she didn't gain anything.)

(She thinks she _lost_ everything, instead.)

* * *

But he's not his brother, or his father, or any other member of his family, and two days later, he's at her door, hanging the key she gave him on the key ring by the door, and saying-

_"I'm sorry."_

And then she ends up in his arms, her massive stomach between them, just hugging him to make sure that he's _real_ and this isn't a dream, because nobody has ever done this for her.

(He's not his brother, not at all, because Francis would always apologize when he was wrong, but he'd never in a thousand years apologize just to stop a fight, just to make her feel better, just to make it _easier_.

Francis _fought_ for every victory, and here Bash is, surrendering.)

"I'm sorry," he breathes into her hair. "I'm sorry for yelling and for walking out and for not coming back."

"I'm sorry for making you leave, you darling idiot," She says, and then, to her chagrin, she starts crying. "I'm a train wreck. Pardon any destruction I wreak upon you and your emotional well-being."

He holds her a little bit closer. "Pardon granted," He shrugs, wiping her tears with his sweater sleeve. "I've dealt with train wrecks. Not as scary as they seem."

(Good God, how did she not _notice_ him before? How could she not have seen his kindness, his bravery, his strength?)

(She thinks that it might be because she didn't want to.)

* * *

Fast-forward two months, and Mary's back hurts from all the weight on her stomach, so much so that she's dipped into her maternity leave and stays in bed _all._

_Bloody._

_Day._

(Lazy has never felt so good.)

But anyway, she's spent most of the day sleeping and trying in vain to see her knees over her enormous stomach, and she falls asleep again around noon because the heat makes her drowsy, after all, and she's freakin' pregnant, after all.

And when she wakes up, the sun is down, the key is on the hook by the door, and Bash is talking to her stomach.

(_What an absolutely lovely cliché_, she can't help but think.)

* * *

And suddenly, it's _that time_, and she has never felt _anything_ like this, never anything at all- it feels like she's being ripped open and open and _open_ and she's screaming and clutching Bash's hand until she notices that it's gone whiter than the goddamn sheets.

"Push, Ms. Stuart," The doctor says very calmly. "I need you to push for me."

"WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU THINK I'M DOING, YOU-" Mary's curses are cut off by another sharp, shooting pain, and she yelps loudly.

"A little harder, now, Ms. Stuart, just a little harder, now-"

"Goddamn," Kenna says mildly, watching from the sidelines with a glass of wine in her hand. "That doesn't look fun."

"It's labor, you insensitive-" Greer says furiously.

"Where in god's name did you get alcohol in a maternity ward?" Lola cuts in, zeroing in on Kenna's glass.

Kenna simply smiles, and turns back to the window, where she can see Mary screaming.

"Please, Ms. Stuart," The doctor begs. "Please, please, please, just push once more, and then you'll be done-"

"FUCK YOU AL-' Mary shrieks, and then another shriek pierces the air.

"A girl," The doctor says, encouragingly. "Shall we try for a boy, now? Push!"

"You're doing amazing," Bash is muttering in her ear, and Mary is nodding and dammit, she has a daughter now, there is a little human who is half her, breathing and wailing and alive and-

"Well, look at that!" The doctor says excitedly, and another scream sounds. "What'd I say? It's a boy, Ms. Stuart."

Mary collapses back on the bed, shuts her eyes, and breathes.

"Never, ever, ever again." She tells Bash, and holds her arms out for her son.

* * *

Later, the nurse will take a picture.

Bash will be curled onto the bed with her, a newborn in a pink blanket safely in his arms, the recipient of his adoring gaze, and she will be holding a blue blanket with a tuft of wet black hair sticking out the top, looking tired but fulfilled.

(Margaret and James Du Poitiers are their names, and damn it all, they are perfect.)

* * *

("Damn, Mary," Kenna says when she comes in and visits. "You've got some ugly ass kids."

"Go straight to hell," Mary tells her cheerfully, and Bash and Lola die of laughter.)

* * *

Two months later, Greer comes out and tells them all that she and Leith are having a kid.

"Get ready for it, sweetheart." Mary says when Greer calls her (She can hear a baby crying in the background, and Bash's low voice, hoarse begging James _to please go back to sleep_). "It's not as fun as it looks."

"Joy," Greer grumbles, and hangs up.


	4. Chapter 4

**A.N. Happy belated Valentine's Day!**

**So I guess I've been watching too much NCIS, because for some reason a criminal themed story just wouldn't leave my fingertips until i wrote it. **

**This is, I suppose, a criminal!au in which Mary is a Scottish InterPol officer and Bash is the head of a crime organization, and a hostage exchange takes place. Again, absolutely no idea what this is, and whether I'm happy with it or want to burn it at the stake like it's the Salem Witch Trials. **

**(Stockholm Syndrome, though. It's a thing.) **

**This one is kind of extremely angsty, much more so than the previous ones :( it's what happens when I listen to too much Simple Plan. **

**happy reading!**

* * *

It's two a.m., and Bernie Rodgers is not paying attention.

(This is very, very, very dangerous.)

See, Bernie Rodgers is a security guard for the Louvre, and it's his night to man the security cameras.

But Bernie Rodgers is so, so, _so_ tired, and the room feels warm and comforting.

_It's okay, Bernie,_ it seems to be saying. _It's okay to sleep a little._

_Yeah,_ Bernie thinks, _maybe it is._

So Bernie Rodgers nods off when he should be watching the security footage, and because of that (and a few other well-placed distractions ) Bernie Rodgers does not see his cameras short out.

He does not see the five black-clothed figures enter the Louvre.

He does not see them split up, each of them heading a different direction.

He does not see them meet up again 2.451 minutes later.

And he does not see the glint of blue eyes as the tallest of the figures flips the camera off.

(Bernie Rodgers sleeps through it all, so the next morning he is just as confused as the rest of them.)

* * *

Thirty-five miles away, Scottish InterPol officer Mary Stuart bolts awake in bed.

* * *

Francis tosses the front page of the newspaper in front of her, sending Mary's coffee flying and disturbing the piles of paperwork on her tiny desk.

"They _didn't_," Mary breathes, grabbing the paper and scanning it furiously.

"Oh, but they did," Francis tells her, and Mary swears loudly and harshly.

"Those _bloody_ Illegitmates-" Mary growls. "They think they can just _get away_ with this? That they won't get _caught_?"

"They haven't yet," Francis points out. "They've evaded apprehension for longer than any other crime ring."

"They're not a crime ring," Lola says, joining them and handing Mary a new coffee cup. "They don't harm civilians. They just-"

"Steal priceless works of art and deface one of the best art muesems in the world?" Mary slams the paper down again and upsets the coffee cup again. "I swear, I'm catching them."

"You'll want to start with their leader," Lola says, moving slightly to avoid the growing coffee pool. "The Prince of Bastards."

"Prince of Bastards, hm?" Mary snorts. "His ass is mine. And tell Kenna to clean my desk!"

Kenna casually flips her off as Mary stalks past her desk. "Clean it yourself, stick-in-the-mud."

* * *

When Mary gets to the Louvre, the first thing she sees is the Bastard's symbol.

It's big, and it's spray-painted black on the side of the building, and it's so delicate and detail-oriented that Mary almost admires it.

Instead, she crushes her third coffee cup that day out of anger.

"How the _bloody hell_," She spits out venomously at the collection of sheepish looking security guards. "Did they manage to short out _every single_ camera, steal _five priceless pieces of arts_, and paint a_ bloody wall mural_, without catching _any_ of your attentions?"

"They're good, ma'am," One of the security guards says slowly, and Mary wants to stamp her high-heeled foot.

"_Of course_ they're good, that's not a bloody excuse! I want to know why you didn't catch them, not what their skill level is!"

"Mary," Francis jogs up behind her and saves the security guards from having to answer. "You're gonna want to hear this."

He hands her a phone, and with one last biting look at the cowering men, she takes it.

"_Hello, Agent Stuart_," a male voice says cheerfully. "_My name is the Bastard Prince, and I'd like to offer you a deal_."

* * *

"You're not doing this, Mary," Francis says firmly. Her fiancé/partner's face is set, blue eyes determined. "I'm not letting you do this."

"You don't let me _do_ anything, Francis," Mary snaps at him, sliding the Bastard's file into her knapsack and turning her computer off. "I don't answer to you."

"You're on French soil, and as a French officer, I refuse to allow you to go into what's obviously a trap!"

"Again, I'm a Scottish citizen. I. Don't. Answer. To. You."

"Then as the man you're going to marry," He says, and he takes her hands in his. "Don't do this. There's nothing good that comes out of this but-"

"_Information_, Francis," Mary says exasperatedly. "Information that we can use to lock the Illegitimates up for good and call it a night. All they're asking is medical care. For a pregnant woman."

"Who is probably completely made up," Francis argues.

"Even if she is, I'll still be on the inside. You can clip a track on my bra or something." Mary pats Francis's cheek. "I'll come back. Promise."

(She should know better than to make promises she can't keep.)

* * *

It's cold outside, a winter Paris wind nipping at Mary's arms as she waits for the Bastard to show. Her hands are shivering slightly, and she finds herself almost wishing for him to take her, just to get away from the hellish weather.

And then the Bastard Phone rings.

"_Frightful weather, isn't it?_" The same cheerful voice says, light and carefree.

(Mary doesn't like to admit it, but she very nearly jumped out of her shoes.)

"_Calm down, Agent Stuart,_" Laughter colors the voice. "_I didn't come here to hurt you._"

The words _'But I will if I have to'_ go unsaid, but Mary picks up on the undertone and another shiver, this one not from the cold, goes through her body.

"I'm here," She says sharply. "But not to make small talk. Send out the girl."

"_So impatient_," He sighs. "_How very rude._"

"Criminals don't deserve courtesy. Sorry."

His voice tightens, gains a sharper edge. "_Sweetheart, I'm not a criminal, and I'd encourage you to refrain from calling me one. I won't always be able to pardon such ignorance."_

"Ignorance?" She spits out. "You defaced the Louvre-"

"_Really_?" His voice is tinged with mock curiosity. "_Did you see me?_"

"Of course I didn't see you," Mary makes no attempt to hide her exasperation. "You _shorted out the damn cameras_!"

"_Then how, Agent Stuart, do you know I was there?_" His breath stirs the hair on her neck, but she refuses to grant him victory by turning around.

"You left your sign everywhere-"

"_Agent Stuart, this is very important,_" He cuts her off, tension in his voice. "_How do you know I was there?_"

She sighs. "I don't."

"_Don't trust anything you don't know,_" He admonishes her. "_Bastard's number one rule._"

(His voice is low and honey-colored, and she sort of hates him for it.)

* * *

He sends the girl out two minutes later; she's no older than eighteen, staggering under the weight of the baby in her belly.

"Is it your kid?" Mary asks him, the phone speaker crackling under her ear.

"_Nope,_" He pops the 'p' almost arrogantly, and Mary thinks that no criminal should ever be able to be that carefree in the middle of a hostage exchange. "_Isabelle's my cousin. I don't do incest._"

"Just art thievery."

"_Look, Agent Stuart, I'm getting tired of your judgment,_" He tells her sharply. "_Step two paces to the left, or deal's off._"

Mary pushes down her indignation at being ordered about by a man she can't even see and obediently steps two paces to the left.

"_Well, Agent_," He says, and worry grows in the pit of her stomach when she picks up on a triumphant edge to his tone. "_It's been real, and it's been fun, but it has not been real fun. See you in a bit!_"

And before she can even move, a cloth reeking of drugs is pressed to her mouth and nose, and her world goes black.

* * *

When she wakes up, her arms are bound tightly, so tight they cut into her wrists, and there's a blindfold loosely tied around her eyes.

She blinks a little, and then sits up, her back aching from being slumped over for too long.

"Welcome back to the land of the living, Sleeping Beauty," the same melodious voice say, and she can almost hear a smirk in his words. "The Compound welcomes you. You feeling okay?"

"Do you care?" She replies bitingly, and winces as pain shoots through her arms.

"It's not my style to give you back to the authorities in a body bag, so yes, I do care." A scuffling sound, and then she hears a tray of some sort scraping against the floor.

"It's water and some stuff Gil made you," He says, and he laughs when she tries to sniff it. "It's not poisoned, I promise."

"Because I normally believe promises from _criminals_."

"Oh, damn, are we back to the ignorant judging bit? I thought you were over being immature," He snaps at her. "Doo-doo head."

"And I'm immature?"

"Yes, you are. Thanks for acknowledging it." He pushes the tray towards her again. "So you can be immature, dehydrated, and hungry, or you can just be immature and we can call it a day."

"Very righteous for a-"

"Screw it," He mutters before she can get 'criminal' out, and he picks up what she thinks is a spoon from the tray and slides it into her mouth.

It's full of some kind of soup, tomato-based, with an abundance of seasoning. It's hot and sweet to her tongue, and, she notes cheerfully, not drugged.

"There," he says, pulling the spoon from her mouth and dropping it back on the tray. "So are you gonna eat now?"

Before she can answer, she feels the butterfly-light touch of his fingertips to the bottom of her chin, swabbing at her face.

(His fingers are twitching when they pull away, like she's shocked him.)

"You got soup on your chin," he explains. "Pet peeve."

And once again, he shoves a spoon into her mouth and doesn't let her finish speaking.

(It bothers her much less than it should.)

* * *

Every day, like clockwork, he comes down and feeds her, like she's a _child,_ like she's _helpless_.

(He doesn't mean to be an asshole, but still. Mary Stuart spent the last four years proving her worth at InterPol, okay? She doesn't want to be patronized by a bloody _criminal._)

"Don't you have lackeys for this?" She asks him snidely after he wipes soup dribbles from her chin for what seems like the seventy-fifth time. "Seems beneath the Prince to take care of some stupid hostage."

"Thinking like that is what fucked over the French monarchy, Agent Stuart," He tells her, sounding annoyingly smart (She doesn't need history lessons from the likes of him). "They stopped caring about the people, about the ones beneath them, and they lost the respect and loyalty of their subjects. I'm not one to repeat history, especially when it comes to colossal mistakes."

"People will come for me," She tells him, her tone braver than she actually feels. "This place is going to be swarming with Agents. They're probably already _coaxing_ the information out of your special friend."

He exhales through his mouth, and she takes smug enjoyment in imagining the look on his face. "She's my bloody _cousin_, Agent. She's innocent in all of this, okay?"

Under his breath, she hears him mutter, "But that'd be just like the bastards in the legal system, wouldn't it, to punish the innocent?"

(He sounds so, so, so bitter as he says it, so angry at the world, and she feels pity in this instant, sympathy.)

* * *

_(Ladies and Gentlemen, the Stockholm Syndrome begins.)_

* * *

(She feels like she knows him, now, and that's so, so, so dangerous, because she knows now that he's smart and he's actually kind of funny, and his pet peeves include hair in her face, soup on her chin, and open sores on her wrists that refuse to heal.

He takes care of her, and she thinks that it's the worst thing he could've possibly done.)

* * *

"Why?" She asks him one day, when he brings her the food and water she receives daily. "Why are you _like_ this? You don't have to be a criminal. You could be _better_ than this life."

"I couldn't be. I'm _not _better than this." he replies sharply, and there's something underneath his words. "But you act like it's a sin, something to be ashamed of. It's not, sweetheart."

"Why?" She's so frustrated, because she _sees_ the good in him, so bright and shining and brimming out of him, and she can't place it with the darkness that surrounds the cellar, surrounds this place. "Why is it so hard for you to chose _good_?"

"Because good never helped anybody," is his reply, and all the warmth is gone from his voice. "I hate to shatter your societal ideals, but what I do gets things _done_. It _accomplishes_ things. Takes care of the people I care about. That's more than being _'good'_ has _ever_ done for me."

She has no response, so she closes her eyes and leans her head back against the stone wall of the cellar.

She feels his hand brush hair out of her face, and she doesn't open her eyes because he reminds her of a fawn and she thinks he might run away if she startles him.

* * *

He comes down one evening with a stack of children's books, and he reads to her, his voice low and lulling and comforting.

He reads Green Eggs and Ham and The Giving Tree and The Girl In The Golden Bower, and when he ends that particular story she gets goosebumps.

After that, he puts the books away and tells her a different story, one with a prince who lets his princess be taken by a rogue knight.

" _' "How am I to think anything but evil of you?" The Princess said. "You have captured me and threaten everything that I care for." '_" His voice grows heavy as he reads the next part. " _'And the knight answered her, "Fair maid, tell me, what is evil? I see no evil in a man protecting his family. I see no evil in a man who does what he must to survive. I do what I must to achieve my goals; how are you any better than I am?"'_ "

"She's better because she's _remorseful_," Mary comments. "She feels bad about the people she's hurt. He doesn't."

"They're an end to a means," The Prince says. "Collateral damage, to him."

"And to you?" She says, annoyance in her voice. "Is the Louvre just _collateral damage_? Is the whole world a playground for a reckless little boy to pull apart and put back together as he fancies?"

"Don't speak to me of _collateral damage_," he commands her bitingly. "My cousin's face was blown to bits in one of those government explosions, and they told us it was his own fault for getting too close, that they _had to do what they had to do_. My dad left my mom _alone_ at _nineteen_, so he could marry an heiress and live on top, and when she showed him the pregnancy test he shrugged and wished her luck. _Isabelle_, " He spits the words out, angry, but his voice breaks on his cousin's name, and she can hear his pain. "Just gave birth to a baby, who has probably been forcibly taken from her and put up for adoption, and she's going through God knows what while your version of _"heroes"_ claim it's for the greater good. _Life_ is collateral damage, Agent Stuart."

* * *

She realizes when he stops talking to her when he gives her the soup that it's not always the princess who needs saving.

* * *

The next time he comes down, she sighs, tries to make peace and cool her temper. "You talk about your mom a lot. What's she like?"

His voice softens noticeably. "Her name's Diane, and she's perfect. Everything thing a mother should be. She doesn't know what I'm doing; I haven't seen her in a while."

"How long is _'a while'_?"

"Ten years, maybe?" He laughs at her horrified expression (she tries to tell herself that the chills going through her are from the cold and not his laughter). "A life of crime doesn't lend itself to maternal guidance."

"You miss her, though."

"I try not to," he says honestly. "I don't like missing things; it's like giving up hope that you'll ever find them. You're so convinced that they're gone that you start wishing they were with you instead of looking for ways to get back to them." He looks at her sideways. "What about you? What's your fiancé like?"

Mary sighs, fingers the diamond ring on her hand. "He's exactly what he should be, which means that he's almost what I want. He's nice and he's a gentleman and he listens to me, but he's just..."

"_Empty,_" he finishes, and she imagines that he has a bright, fierce lion look in his eyes. "He feels like the air, doesn't he? Pretty and clean, but insubstantial. Everywhere, going all directions at once."

"Exactly," she sighs. "And I don't know. It'd be nice to know that I was it, the thing he'd pick before everything else."

"You want to be true north instead of just another direction on the compass." He snorts. "Best of luck."

* * *

"How long have I been here?" She asks him.

"A little more than a month," He replies, and then laughs at her shocked expression. "What, you though the calvary'd come sooner?"

"_No,_" She replies venomously, even though that's exactly what she thought and he knew it. "It just doesn't feel like a month, is all."

(In reality, she is for the first time scared that she isn't InterPol's priority, that they've given up on her.)

* * *

It's late, this time, and his footsteps are frantic on the stairs, shaking her from sleep and filling her with apprehensive worry.

"Time to go, Agent Stuart," He tells her, quickly undoing her wrist binds and releasing her from the wall. "Now."

"Where are we going?" She asks, confused and sleep dazed, as he pushes her to her feet.

She stumbles; she's not used to walking, and she hasn't so much as crawled for the past month (the bastard made her use the bathroom in a _bloody bucket_ he got one of the females in the compound to bring her), so he swears violently and picks her up, running her up the stairs and into light that shines blindingly through the thin fabric of her blindfold.

She hears gasps, a cacophony of voices, and _gunshots_.

"What the hell are you doing?" A voice queries him, and she thinks she'd like to know the answer to that question, as well. "Tomas is _right outside,_ and that's what you're worried about?"

"Shut the fuck _up,_ Gil," He snarls back, and she thinks his arms tighten around her. "Don't you think InterPol will be pissed if she gets hurt?"

"You're going to _die_ trying to get her out," Gil insists. "_You're going to die,_"

She thinks she feels him look down at her when he says, "I know."

* * *

It's late, late at night, and the moon shines down as she takes her first gulp of fresh air in a month.

(It tastes_ sour and stale_, like the air she's supposed to be breathing is that of the compound.)

He reaches out and unwinds the blindfold from her eyes and she blinks, because she's been in darkness for so long, and there-

It's him.

He's got dark hair that's the perfect length and is currently hanging in his face (she wants to brush it out, because he's been doing that for her and she thinks she owes him for this), and his eyes are an unforgivable blue, the blue of molten flames and a thousand other things she can't think of right now.

"Agent Stuart," He says, and he tries to shake the dazed expression off of her face. "Mary. Listen to me. I'm going to put you down in a second, and you're going to run as fast as you can, as far away from here as is physically possible, okay? And if you can't run, you're going to crawl, you're going to _fly_, you're going to do whatever you need to in order to be as far as you can be from here, okay?"

She nods, but speaks anyway. "What about you?"

He grins wryly at her. "Didn't you hear Gil, Mary? I'm going to die."

And with that, he fastens his mouth on hers, kissing her furiously while setting her down.

"Go," He tells her once he pulls away.

* * *

(She can't run, so she crawls on her hands and knees across the gravel parking lot, but she's still close enough to the compound that she can see when it explodes into the night, fire and smoke and wreckage forming deadly fireworks in the skies.

In the distance, from the burning building, she hears Gil's voice scream out, and then the world goes black.)

* * *

_Sebastian Du Poitiers,_ they tell her when she wakes up in a standard hospital in the French countryside.

His name was Sebastian Du Poitiers.

* * *

It's easy to find Diane Du Poitiers once she sets her mind to it, and when she shows up at his mother's cottage in rural France, the woman is everything he described her to be.

(The worst part, though, is that she has his eyes.)

Diane pours her a cup of tea, sits her on the couch, and tells her the story of Sebastian Du Poitiers.

Sebastian Du Poitiers, who always went by Bash, who was the product of a young secretary's infatuation.

"His father was already married," Diane tells her in heavily accented French. " And 'is wife, she 'ated me. I didn't care. I was zo in love with 'im, I thought 'e would choose me and we would raise 'Bastian togezzer."

Sebastian Du Poitiers, who didn't even get the luxury of a single mother, and instead had to watch as his father floated in and out of his life, from publicly denouncing his bastard son and his mother, to sneaking in at two in the morning and professing his love for them.

"And it 'urt 'im, so, because 'Bastian was always so protectzive of me, and 'e could not bear to see his father treat us zhat way." Diane's voice gets misty. " 'E didn't want to be anyone's second choice, you see. 'E wanted 'is father to pick us, leave his wife and her sons. And 'is father wouldn't."

Sebastian Du Poitiers, who felt that rejection so intensely that he grew into himself, changed from the happy open child he'd been to a moody, angry teenager who only loved his mother.

Sebastian Du Poitiers, who got in with the wrong crowd and couldn't get out.

"I sent 'im to zhat school," His mother tells Mary mournfully. "And 'e met zhose people zere, and 'e wanted to come home, but I wouldn't let 'im. I told 'im it was too far, too long, that 'e would get so much more from zere than 'e would from me. I wouldn't let 'im, so he got in with them."

Sebastian Du Poitiers who fell into gang life headfirst and ran into the biggest name on the streets: The Dragon.

(Also known as Tomas.)

"Zat man," Diane spits out, "Was illegitimate as well, and 'e got inside 'Bastian's head, kept 'imself there, made my son into something else. 'E called 'im the Lion, and togezzer zey got into some 'orrible things."

Sebastian Du Poitiers, who never knew that once you got in, you couldn't get out, who called his mother every weekend to tell her he loved her, to tell her that he'd made some mistakes and wanted to come home.

Sebastian Du Poitiers, who was in the wrong place at the wrong time and was accused for a murder he didn't commit.

" It was a young girl, fifteen at ze most," Diane tells her. " And she was horribly killed, cut up and defaced. 'E told me 'e was zere and 'e tried to 'elp, but Tomas held him back, kept him from saving 'er." His mother pauses. " 'E cried like a child in my arms, and 'e told me ze blood dripped from 'er chin and 'er 'air hung in 'er eyes and 'e told me she looked so _scared_."

(And now she knows, why he _always_ wiped her chin, why he brushed the hair from her face, why his touch was so_ loaded_ whenever she felt it.)

Sebastian Du Poitiers, sentenced to four lifetimes in jail, _destroyed_ by the legal system.

Sebastian Du Poitiers, who was saved from his jail cell after two years by an organization that would use him just like everyone else, that would nurture the anger and rage in him until he assumed leadership.

(Sebastian Du Poitiers, who saw himself as life's victim and was too far gone to feel bad about it.)

* * *

(Mary leaves his mother's house crying, and Diane Du Poitiers holds her on her cottage porch just like she held her son.)

* * *

(His cousin tells the same story, of a man who life screwed over so many times, of a big brother figure who never stopped taking care of her.

"He loved with all his heart," Isabelle says quietly, rocking her son in her arms. "And he gave me everything."

Mary looks at the baby boy, Sebastian the second, and she cries for the second time.)

* * *

Later, she gives Francis his ring back.

"I understand," he says (and isn't that the best part of Francis, that he always understands?).

Because, see, she's not the same Agent Stuart that went into that hostage exchange with her head held high, and she's not the same Agent Stuart that couldn't crawl far enough away.

She hands in her badge the same day Isabelle moves in with her, because now she's just Mary, and if this is Stockholm Syndrome, then so be it.

(They scour the wreckage of the building, but they never find his remains, so they tell her that he's more than likely still alive somewhere, hiding, keeping his head down until he can come back.)

(She likes to think that he's waiting for the day he can come back to her.)

* * *

(And two years later, the phone she could never bear to give back to the authorities starts ringing.

"_Hey, there, Mary_," he says, and she wants to cry because she hasn't heard his voice in so very long. "_My name's Sebastian, and I think I'd like to see you again._")

* * *

**A.N. Reviews are welcome and encouraged, as are prompts, because when I'm left to my own devices and Tumblr, I give you angsty pieces like this.**


	5. Chapter 5

**A.N. so this is a loooonnngg time coming. I know it's been obscenely long since I've updated. **

**But the recent Reign episodes have killed the shipper inside of me, making intense shipping therapy a necessity. **

**however, it turns out that shipping resuscitation is actually a thing, so i am alive. **

** this is an au in which Bash is Crown Prince and Mary is a servant working in the castle, because i read a similar fic by Marie Meyers and I had to write one of my own because the idea is three different kinds of perfect. the first half of this was written (get this) EARLY JANUARY and the second half was written today, so if it sounds choppy and not so good... :D ;D **

**THANKS TO EVERYONE WHO REVIEWED. YOU GUYS ARE ABSOLUTELY AMAZING.**

* * *

He is Crown Prince Sebastian de Poitiers, and she is…Mary.

Simple servant girl Mary, who is at court on the whim of the Queen and subject to Her Majesty's fluctuating moods, and her Achilles heel is her love for horses.

They are strong and magnificent and free, something she feels like she will never be, and she goes down to the tables every day, just to see them and feel their manes and imagine herself to be one of them.

As for him, there are responsibilities that come with being a prince that weigh on him, and he goes to the stables every day because horses don't judge and don't ask questions and sometimes he gets just a little bit lonely, surrounded by people who know nothing of him.

She sings Scottish ditties to the horses, and sometimes he listens to them, unseen, and imagines they are for him.

* * *

She is two months shy of seventeen when she first speaks to him.

"Your Grace," She gasps, when he comes out from the shadows, blue eyes sheepish and yet defiant. "I did not see you."

"So I gather," He laughs at her. "You seemed quite enraptured with the horse; I could not bear to interrupt you."

"Yes," She blushes a magnificent red on her pale cheeks. "I apologize, Your Grace, and I will leave you in peace."

"You will be leaving me to solitude, not peace," Sebastian tilts his head to the side. "And they are not the same. Stay."

"As you wish, Your Grace," She inclines her head and misses his subtle eye roll.

"What were you singing?" He asks her, reaching for the horse's reigns.

"Nothing, Your Grace. A simple song from my homeland."

"Which is…?"

"Scotland." She gets a far away look in her eye.

"Do you miss it?"

"As I should," She says, and looks at him, really looks for the first time.

He's leaning against the horse, tall and lanky, dark hair mussed, blue eyes bright, first two buttons of his doublet undone.

(Gracious, she thinks. He's handsome. Almost unfairly so.)

But the thing that catches her attention the most is the hungry look in his eye. It's not hunger for her womanly wiles like she sees in the soldiers' eyes sometimes.

It's hunger for something different, for knowledge that there is a world beyond what he has, what he knows.

"Tell me," He asks her, and if she didn't know better she would think she heard a pleading undertone in his voice. (This is absurd, because princes don't plead.) "Tell me of Scotland."

(She is a good servant; she does her work fully and efficiently, and she never disobeys.)

(But when she tells him of Scotland it is not because she views it as an order.

It is because she wants to.)

* * *

She's gathering lavender for the Queen's chambers, and when she looks up from the plants the dying sunlight is gathering around him, casting a glowing aura as he walks towards her, and something drops in her stomach.

"The horse you like," He calls as soon as he's close enough. "Would you like to earn her?"

Mary's heart flutters at the thought of owning that beautiful animal, but her mind tells her to be skeptical. "At what price, Your Grace?"

"I wish for you to accompany me riding," He says bluntly. "I'm bored, and you're better company than a moping Francis. Ride with me when I ask, and the horse is yours."

"An animal worth hundreds of francs, for a few rides, Your Grace?" She says, skeptically. "I am grateful, but that is hardly a fair trade."

"It is to me, fair maiden," He says, and bows lowly and dramatically.

(No one has ever bowed to her before. No one has ever shown her that respect, not even jokingly, as he does.)

(Who is he, this Prince who wishes to leave his kingdom, who bows to mere servant girls, who treats his rightful inferiors as equals, who treats his animals like he treats humans?

Who is this prince who sets her hands sweating and her heart pumping?)

* * *

Their rides are frequent and long, though he always summons her at the end of the day, when her work is done. They go across and through the grounds, and she tells him of her simple life.

In turn, he gifts her with stories of growing in the castle, of being legitimized on his twelfth birthday, of growing up as a bastard and then becoming a prince when the king's legitimate sons died.

He also tells her of his betrothed.

"I am told she is fierce and head-strong," He says as they lay by the riverbank, which sparkles in the mid-afternoon light. "Quite lovely, but quite independent."

"Is that a problem, Your Grace?" Mary says carefully as the grass tickles the bare skin peeking out from her dresses.

"Of course not," Bash shakes his head. "No. I can handle independent."

"You plan to correct this trait?" Mary says disapprovingly.

Bash laughs at the look in her eyes. "Why? Her spirit is who she is. It makes her herself, and I would sooner refuse her than crush that. Your horse is strong-willed; would you beat her for it? No. You will work with her, compromise with her, as will I."

(Mary has never known a man, not even her dear father, who does not wish to remake his wife into his own ideal, who does not wish to make her his own, who is willing to give her the freedom to be who she wishes.

This is an extremely new idea, and it endears His Majesty to her that much more.)

* * *

"Come, Mary," He says to her, once again as she's picking lavender in the sweltering summer heat. "Come swimming with me."

"Swimming?" Mary is incredulous, even as she thinks of cold river water longingly. "You wish to go swimming? In what?"

His only response is a wolfish grin and a mischievous twinkle.

"You are jesting," She shakes her head. "You must be jesting."

"I am quite serious," His smile is infectious, even as Mary fights to keep a similar one down. "Come swimming. It is quite hot, after all."

"Your Grace," She begins, slowly and deliberately. "You cannot be serious. I have nothing to swim in, and even if I did, the sheer amount of impropriety in such an act is-"

"Precisely why we're doing it, love," He smiles at her cheekily as she blushes a bright red. "You worry too much, Mary; you forget to live."

"I have cause to worry," She says sharply.

And then he draws himself to his full (unfair) height and looks down at her with his laughing eyes on bright blue fire, and all the resolve she's mustered up flies away to the heavens.

(She is a servant, after all, and this does count as a direct order.

Doesn't it?)

* * *

The water is wonderfully cold, soaking through her (thankfully dark) thin chemise and saturating her skin, but even better (she feels dirty simply thinking it) is the way his wet white shirt clings to his torso muscles as he splashes water at her.

She floats on the surface of the water, wet hair spanning about her in a dark aura, and he watches her lazily from the bank of the river, gazing from beneath his eyelids, never wavering and never turning away.

"You're staring at me," She says without opening her eyes.

"I suppose I am," He smiles at her, and slides back into the water.

She looks so peaceful, floating gently, that he literally cannot help himself; he grabs her ankle and yanks, and her eyes fly open and she splashes water at him as she collides with the river.

She reaches for anything, anything at all, to stop herself from hitting the river bottom face-first, and the first thing her hands find is his shirt. She uses it to pull herself up, inadvertently pulling herself flush against him, and suddenly-

Suddenly his breath is hitching a little, as the wet curves of her body meld against him, and her heartbeat is pounding in her throat because his eyes are devouring her in a way she is completely and utterly unfamiliar with, tracing searing trails up and down and around her body.

"What," he breathes, "does your propriety have to say about this?"

(She is a very good servant; she obeys orders, always, and she never talks back.

But she kisses him anyway, and repentance seems a far away emotion.)

* * *

It begins with this, a water-stained kiss, and she thinks that it never really ends, only grows.

Because soon after, she finds his squire waiting at her chambers, and she blushes profusely when she realizes that she's be summoned to his, and that she probably will not be coming back to hers tonight, and that she actually does not mind the thought in the slightest.

He's waiting for her in the window seat by his door, the sunlight pooling down his dark hair and around his shoulders before falling in a sparkling pile by his feet, and when he turns and looks at her his eyes light up.

A slow smiles spreads across his face, warm and bright, and Mary falls.

(Quite literally.)

Is this love? She thinks, as he laughs as he helps her up. There is a warm, indescribable feeling growing in her stomach, like so many red-tipped flowers, and-

His lips find hers suddenly, boldly, and she's reminded that no matter how gentlemanly he is, he is still a prince.

(and she knows by now that princes don't have to ask for permission.)

* * *

His betrothed, a Spanish princess, Sophia Montes de la Burgeones, arrives at the castle on a Thursday.

(Mary remembers because Thursday is the day Bash takes her riding.

He's dependable, like clockwork, when it comes to her.)

She is beautiful, yes, but it is a cold, haughty beauty, and she looks down her nose in disapproval at everyone but Bash.

He deserves so much better, Mary thinks bitterly as she watches Sophia place a dainty hand in his. He deserves love and happiness and-

His eyes find hers in the crowd, and she cannot bear to see him with her.

She turns her face away.

(She only lasts a second before she's flinging her head back around, devouring the sight of him with her eyes, trying to believe that he hasn't just been playing with her these past months.

The only thing she can see is his retreating back, his arm linked in her highness's, and her heart drops into her stomach.)

* * *

He spends more and more time with his soon-to-be bride and less and less with what the nobles call 'his servant girl'.

Sometimes when Mary is alone, she thinks of how true that is. Her relationship with the prince has left no room for any other man, in her heart or in her life. Servant boys, stable hands, and lords alike; all have been chased off by a single pointed look from the dauphin when they approach her.

The other servants call her the prince's favored.

Sophia calls her the prince's whore.

* * *

"You mean nothing to him," Sophia spits in her face, anger and her native accent coloring her words. "All you were was carnal pleasure, a tumble in the the stables, a servant who was willing to spread her legs and allow him entrance. I am going to be his wife; I am going to share his bed and bear his children, and you will be nothing to him, just a remnant of a hot summer day and a low-born whore. A game."

Sebastian denies all of it; tells her that she means more to him than Sophia, than anyone. That she was not a game, not a prize.

(Somehow, she has trouble believing him.)

She spends that night crying in her quarters, ashamed of her weakness and her feelings, because Sophia's words have rung true in her soul, hitting the secret fears inside of her.

Sometime before dawn she feels him slip into her bed next to her, take her in his arms, rock her tears away.

"Shh, Mary," she thinks she hears him say. "No more tears, my love."

When she wakes in the morning, he is gone.

She tells herself that she dreamed him up and ignores the remnants of his scent on her sheets.

* * *

He marries Sophia on a Tuesday.

She does her work in the castle diligently, and then hides her tears in the stables.

* * *

Three days later, he finds her in the lavender field and she gives him her maidenhead on the riverbank.

(And if anyone sees, no one says anything. They all know, now, that princes are held to a different standard.)

* * *

He calls her his love.

The servant calls her his whore.

She does not know which one she is.

* * *

She gives birth to his first child, his only son, three weeks before her nineteenth birthday.

Sebastian misses a meeting with his nobles in order to be there, and when their son comes screaming into the world he cries.

(Mary wants to name him James, after her father, but Bash calls him Christian and the name sticks.)

* * *

Christian calls her his mama.

Sophia calls her the prince's mistress.

Mary thinks she's tired of labels.

* * *

Two months into Sophia's first pregnancy, Mary, the servant girl, decides it is time to leave the castle.

Sebastian throws a fit.

"Do you honestly think," he says, his blue eyes flashing. "That I would allow you to take my son and leave me? I love you-"

"Which is precisely why you will allow this." She interrupts him. "You understand that the life of a bastard is not the life your son deserves. You understand that I am not happy here."

"Stay," he pleads. "Stay, and I will make you happy. Anything you want, anything you could ever wish for. Stay, and I will give you the castle, the country, the world."

"You are so passionate," Mary says softly. "So invigorated in everything you do. So persuasive." She sighs. "But you cannot give me what I want."

"I am a prince," he says, with a trace of sullenness in his voice. "And with my father's condition, I am more king than anything else. What could anyone deny me? What couldn't I procure for you?"

"You cannot give me your heart," Mary turns away from him. "It belongs to your country. To your kingdom. To your wife. To your unborn child. And I cannot accept anything less than that, for myself or for my son."

"And what of our son?" Sebastian touches her shoulder gently. "Is he to forget me? To call another man father? To never know his true origins? The nurse cares for him here, Mary, but if you take him and leave? Who will watch him while you work? Who will care for an unwed mother? Who will offer you any means of help or protection? I can give him a better life than that, Mary. I can give him more."

"Then give it to him," Mary replies. "But do it from a distance. I will not be swayed on this, Sebastian. I have made my choice."

(She does not turn around, but she can imagine the pain in his eyes.)

* * *

She leaves on a Wednesday, taking with her her son, with his chubby baby legs and blue eyes and dark unruly curls.

As she leaves, through the servant's entrance, a stable hand approaches her, the horse she dreamed about so long ago directly behind him.

"Excuse me, miss," he calls. "Only I've got a horse for you. Prince's orders, apparently. Says you earned her, fine animal that she is."

Mary bites her lip and blinks.

_He would remember_, she thinks. _Of course he would._

In between her skin and her bridle, there is a note tucked where only the horse and Mary would see it.

_Her name is Wanderlust, _it reads. _With her, you take my heart. _

* * *

fin.


	6. Chapter 6

**A.N. Well, hi, everybody. **

**1. Thanks to everyone who reviewed and favorited and followed! I appreciate every single one of them :) **

**2. On Tuesday (April 1st) I'm going to update again, with a...surprisefic? BE READY FOR IT, BROS. #YOUARENOTPREPARED (If you get that reference, I love you.) **

**3. chrisrose, I have the 30s fic 95% done, but it's gonna be hard to write for a while due to school, so I thought i'd give you want I have. **

**4. Let's talk about characterization, shall we? **

**So I am a firm believer that you're born with certain traits, but that the majority of your personality is shaped via environment. The place you come from, the life you lead: it all has a very real affect on the type of person you turn out to be. **

**That being said, I think we can all agree that Mary has a token of wildness in her, almost, and a lot of independence. Those qualities were supressed in her, because of her duty as Queen of Scotland and as a royal in general. **

**I believe that if Mary had grown up in an environment in which those qualities were not supressed, she would be a lot more carefree, a lot more playful, and a lot more curious. In this fic, she did, so she's somewhat different then the Mary in the show, because she experienced a completely different lifestyle. **

**Same goes for Bash, who I insist upon giving sad backstories. **

**5. if you don't like this one, that's okay. this is a safe environment for all opinions. My best friend and I watched Beauty and the Beast right after Reign this week, so this is what came of it.**

**Happy reading!**

* * *

"Mary," Lola says, exasperation coloring her voice. "Please come down from there."

Mary smiles at her friend from the high branches of a tree and shakes her head. "I am quite happy where I am, thanks."

"Nobody is forcing you to do anything you don't want to," Lola says desperately. "But Olaf is a good man, a talented flutist, and he only wants to meet you."

"Tell him that he can jam his flute up his-"

Lola sighs dramatically. "Sometimes, friend of mine, you are impossible."

Her skirts swish theatrically around her legs as she heaves her cello into her arms and stalks off.

* * *

Mary doesn't mean to be impossible. It's just natural.

She's headstrong and curious, prideful and somewhat reckless; everyone agrees that she will make a terrible wife and must therefore be married off to someone who does not know her.

That was the whole purpose behind her joining Molly at court; while her sister played in the orchestra, she was to be playing the noblemen, looking for a husband.

Only Mary doesn't want to be married; she is convinced it won't suit her. She would rather go rock-skipping, toad-hunting, tree-climbing, then smile becomingly at a pompous man who only wants what's under her skirt.

Mary's naturally curious, naturally free-spirited, and so the idea of becoming a man's property does not sit well with her.

She spends her time at court in the servant's kitchen, making friends with the young girls who work there, giggling at the gossip with them and listening to their stories.

It is there she hears of the westernmost tower.

" 'Tis haunted," one of the servant girls, Coleen, tells her. "Awful sounds come from it, an' no one whose gone ever tells what's there."

"Too afraid, I'd reckon," Another girl chimes in. "'Tis unnatural, whatever's there. Twasn't mean to be. No, anyone with sense steers clear of that tower, and whatever's in there."

"Is it guarded very closely?" Mary asks, leaning her chin on the wooden counter top in front of her. "Is it impossible to reach?"

" 'Course not," Coleen's eyes twinkle. "No guard would be caught dead near there, an' neither would anyone else." She motions at the window to her right as she begins to knead a lump of bread dough. "See the tall tower? Way on the edge of the castle, away from everything? That's the one."

Mary eyes the tower thoughtfully, and a little smile appears on her lips.

* * *

It's not hard to sneak away from Mary, and it's even easier to find her way to the tower.

She's a curious girl, and the promise of a forbidden tower is too alluring to forget. Surely the servant's tales are all superstition, surely their stories are a mixture of exaggeration and misguided fear.

Only, when she reaches the door, it's covered in gauge marks, and it has seven different locks on it, all magicked (all of which do absolutely nothing to stop her from pushing the door open).

She's a light girl, but the stone floors creak as she pads across them, and the air from the door she forgot to close whistles through the stagnant room. She pads across the creaking floor, down a dusty hallway lined with russet curtains and faded pictures of kings and queens and dukes.

A low growl comes from the closed door at the end of the hallway.

Perhaps the servant's stories were more than just superstition.

But Mary is not a coward, so she keeps walking.

Another growl, and her heart is pounding.

Her hands are slick with sweat, but she's in it now, and the foolishly stubborn part of her won't let her turn back. Her hand is on the doorknob and she hesitates for half a second and then swings it open, her heart in her throat.

Dusty light pools from a window near the high ceiling, landing on a rumpled bed and a window seat carved into the tower wall. Tapestries lay in bits and rags on the floor; goblets and silver plates are thrown carelessly about, but in the corner there is a thick canvas, a canvas with a thick red velvet cloth over it.

Her feet take her there, and her tiny hands pull it off, and- it's her.

It's a half-finished portrait, but oh, it's beautiful, and it's her- the dark, curling hair, the stupidly delicate doll face, the red mouth, the jokingly bored eyes. There is a teasing furrow in her brow, and her lips are twisted into a smile she reserves for Lola alone. A gasp escapes her lips.

"Hello, there," a deep voice behind her says. "Who the bloody hell are _you_?"

She begins to whirl around, but she hits her head on the edge of the easel, and the world goes black.

* * *

She fights her way back to consciousness some time later; the light from the window is gone, and the room is illuminated by a single candle in the corner.

She's lying either on the bed or the window seat, but she can't tell; her eyes are covered with a black cloth, and her wrists are bound tightly. She blinks open her crusty eyes; her muscles are cramped and aching.

"Awake?" The deep voice, undeniably a man's, speaks again. "Good."

"Did you knock me unconscious?" She says slowly, her mouth dry and stiff.

"No," The voice is low and melodious; it sounds like Lola's cello. "But I did blindfold you. Secrecy and all that."

She tries to sit up, but a heavy hand pushes her down. "I wouldn't try that if I were you, love. You got a good whack on your head; you won't be able to walk for a bit. You'll have to stay with me."

"What?" She says frantically. "No. No, you can't keep me here. Someone will come, to bring you your meals or empty your chamber pot- someone will come, and I will go with them."

"No one will come," His voice has lost its teasing edge. "I am forgotten. I exist because of my own efforts, not those of a palace servant. And once again: even if someone did come, which they won't, you couldn't walk a step without collapsing again."

"That is not true," She says stubbornly. "Someone must take care of you. You cannot exist on your own. Fate must protect you. Providence must care for you."

"Providence has abandoned me," The teasing tone is back. "But of course it's there for you."

"How long will you keep me here?"

A sigh. "Until you're healed, unless you decide you want to stay."

"I will never willingly choose this," she growls.

"Then you should hope you heal soon," he laughs. "Or you will never leave."

* * *

She screams, but no one hears her except for her captor. She cries until her blindfold is soaked with the salty tears but no one comes to soothe her. Her head aches and pounds and burns and blood seeps from it, leaving her with an itchy rusting feeling.

Most of the time her captor stays away from her, and the only hint that he exists is the sound of a paintbrush on a blank canvas or the turning of pages in a book she can't see. Sometimes he leaves for what seems like hours and she tries to leave, but every movement makes her head swim and nausea rise in her stomach. She collapses on the floor, and he carries her like she's no more than a bag of feathers and sets her back on the window seat.

"You're helpless," He says fondly. "Like a little fledgling bird."

"You disgust me," she informs him, but the corners of her mouth lift a little.

"Whatever you say, my little fledgling," he says, and his hand ruffles her hair.

* * *

She wants to think of him as evil, but he is not. Rather, he is a gentleman.

He leaves and waits in the hallway whenever she has to use the bathroom, gets her water to wash with (she has absolutely no idea where from), reads to her when she begs it of him, brushes her hair when she asks him to.

"Why are you kind to me?" She asks him one day as he paints. "I am completely at your mercy. You could do anything you liked."

"What kind of man shoots a fledgling from its nest?" He replies, laughing at the expression on her face.

"A starving man." She says stubbornly. "A man who is deprived."

"I could not mistreat something so innocent," He says, and he brushes a strand of hair from her eyes.

"I am not innocent."

"You are more innocent than I," he says.

* * *

"Why do you blindfold me?" She asks him one day.

"There are some things you do not deserve to be burdened with," he replies. "I am one of them."

"You are not a burden."

"I will be soon."

* * *

"I want to see your face," she says.

"And I want to ride unicorns into the bloody sunset, hand in hand with His Majesty the King and his entire cabinet, but that won't be happening any time soon, either."

"You're afraid of me. Of my reaction to your face."

"Why would I be afraid of a pretty little slip of a girl?"

"Because you fear rejection. From anyone."

* * *

"Why are you here?" she asks him, the candlelight flickering across her blindfold like so many fireflies. "What crime did you commit, to deserve this prison?"

"I was born," he says, and pushes a basin of water her direction. "Wash your hands, fledgling. They look disgusting." His tone is abrupt and obtrusive, but she knows by now that he's trying to pretend that he doesn't care about her. She dips her raw, stinging wrists into the cool liquid and almost moans with relief.

"Thank you," she says quietly.

"You owe me no thanks," he replies gently, and she hears the swishing sound of him uncovering a canvas.

Foolishly, she hopes it is hers.

* * *

"Do you enjoy having me here?" she asks him.

"You entertain me."

"Then show your gratefulness to me by telling me how you came to be here."

His voice is teasing and light, fond and- something else. "Why am I grateful to you?"

She smiles, and though she cannot see it, something in his eyes softens and a light, unbidden, enters them.

"I entertain you," she says.

He sits down on the edge of her window seat and sighs. "Shall I tell you my story?"

She nods.

"Once," he begins, "There was a king, and he laid with a woman who was not his wife. She became pregnant, but she refused to marry the king, and instead grew to love another. The king grew angry and jealous; betrayal clouded his judgment. He had the mother banished to a far away land. But the son he kept, as a reminder of the pain love had brought him. He had the child locked in the westernmost tower, and there he remains, they say, to this day."

"Oh," She says, and reaches out to take his hand.

Instead of grasping it, he leads it back to her head, and he guides both their fingers through her hair, around her scalp.

"Your wound bleeds no longer," he says quietly. "And the dizziness should be gone in a few days. You will leave soon."

"Yes," she says, and she can't hide the sadness that colors her words.

"Do you despair at returning?"

"I despair at leaving you," She says quietly. "You have been kind to me like no other; you have understood me in ways I am unaccustomed to."

His hand is still in her hair, and she can feel his breath close to her face.

She knows him well enough, by now, to know that he will not kiss her. He is too afraid of rejection.

Interestingly enough, Mary has no such fear, and impulsiveness runs through her veins alongside her blood.

His lips are understandably chapped, but they are also warm and soft on her own, bumpy to the feel. It is nothing more than a press of lips, but Mary is insistent, and eventually it grows.

Now it is her who leads, and she moves his hands through her hair, bringing her own up to rest on his shoulder. He's kissing her back eagerly, and his hands are raking through her hair deliciously and fiercely, and-

His hands have loosed the knot on the blindfold.

It flutters to the cushion between them, and he doesn't notice but she does.

She opens her eyes.

He notices.

* * *

His face is covered in scars, red and glistening. They curve across his mouth and coil around his left eye, very nearly cutting it in half. His mouth is cut in quarters, almost, curled up into a permanent bloody smile. His cheeks have been carved and slashed.

His skin is red and inflamed around his eyes, which are blue and stunning and glistening.

She gasps.

"How?" she asks.

"Kings do not love bastard princes," He says lowly. "I was the perfect outlet for His Majesty's anger."

"He did not-?"

"He carved my face like it was a hunk of meat." A pause. "I was four, at the time."

* * *

Her heart is heavy and she wants to cry for the monster in front of her, for the twisted life he has led and the lack of love that created him. She reaches a hand out, lays it on his ruined cheek. "I am truly sorry."

His eyes are wide and disbelieving; he expects rejection from her, as he has received nothing else from all those around him else. He expects her to leave him.

His hand comes up to cradle her tiny wrist, holding her hand against him. "You are truly incredible, my little fledgling."

* * *

"What is your name?"

"….Sebastian."

"Sebastian. I like it."

"I prefer Bash."

* * *

"How do you leave? Where do you go?" She asks him.

"Why do you ask so many questions? Surely your mind cannot hold all the answers," he teases, running a brush through her messy hair.

"Do not make me angry," she teases back. "I am quite fearsome."

"You're about as fearsome as a kitten with a basket on its head." He snorts. "I quiver in fear at the thought of you angry."

"Kittens are quite fearsome! You should see them with yarn."

"Yes, because ferocity with yarn obviously denotes a bloodthirsty organism." He swipes her nose with the brush. "If you must know, I travel through the wall passages. It's an old castle; there's plenty of tunnels and rooms and things, and one of them lets out just past my door."

"Must be very convenient for quick escapes."

He leans down, presses a long kiss to her lips. "Don't even think about it, little fledgling. You'd trip and bust your head again."

"Lies!"

"Sure," he says skeptically, and pulls the brush through her hair again.

* * *

"Bash."

"Yes?"

"I do not wish to leave."

"Then don't."

* * *

They're lying on the bed together, his hand rubbing circles on her back, her face tucked into his chest.

"When are you leaving?" He asks her suddenly.

"I told you, I don't want to," she replies.

"That's a lie." He says shortly. "Nobody would want to stay here. Not with me."

"Then I must be nobody, because that is exactly what I want."

"What of your friends? Your family?" he pauses. "Surely there's a boy who's waiting for you to come back."

She turns her face up to look at his. She's mostly gotten used to it by now, but it's still a bit off-putting. "If there was, do you think I would have gone and fallen for you?"

"…please tell me I heard that right."

"If you heard 'I am actually somewhat in love with you" then yes, you did."

* * *

"Mary," he says to her one day, his hand in her dark curls, her lips at his throat. "You have to leave."

He's just returned from one of his trips, with a new set of paints and an orange for her. He's been quiet and distant all day.

"We've been over this a thousand times, Bash. I'm not-"

"Your friend Lola is sick," he says quietly. "Deathly, with the pregnancy ails. She needs you."

So she leaves, after one lingering goodbye kiss.

He gives her the finished painting to take with her.

"How did you know?" She asks him as they walk to the end of the hallway. "What I looked like, I mean."

He smiles sadly at her. "I dreamed of you."

* * *

After she has gone, Sebastian uncovers another canvas.

It's half-finished like the first, and it is of Mary, curled on the window seat, dress trailing down to the floor, face upturned to the light from the dusty window.

"Oh, my little fledgling," he says, and he picks up his painter's palate. "You really are spectacular."

* * *

Mary sits by Lola's bed, clutches her friend's pale, cold hand, and cries.

"Where on earth have you been, Mary?" Lola says weakly, trying in vain to squeeze Mary's hand as well.

"I have not been on earth," Mary speaks through the sobs. "I have been in heaven. A lofty heaven in the west."

"Will you tell me of it?"

Mary smiles slightly, and she swears she hears a movement in the walls. "Of course, Lola."

* * *

Two months later, there is a knock at the door at the end of Sebastian's hallway.

"Hello," Mary says when he opens the door. "I think I might be in love with you."

He pulls her into the room and there is no more talking after that.

* * *

"Sebastian?"

"Yes?"

"I do not wish to leave you."

Bash smiles. "I love you."

* * *

fin.


	7. Chapter 7

**Fellow Mabastian shippers, I give you...**

**crack!fic. **

**Oh, yes. **

**I went there. **

* * *

Once upon a time, there was a Prince, Prince Sebastian, and he was locked in a tower with a talking fox called Oswald.

(Oswald Franklin Howard the III, to be exact.)

And the tower in which the Prince and Oswald where held was guarded fiercely, by a wall of thorns and a fire-breathing dragon and a bunch of fangirling milk-maids, so fiercely that none of the princesses who wanted to marry the Prince would send their knights to have him rescued.

(See, they were all wusses, and they didn't want to sacrifice their knights.)

So the Prince lived in the tower from the time he was sixteen (two days after his jealous stepmother threw him out of his own castle, the bitch), and Oswald came to him a year later, and there they lived, in semi-harmony.

"Have faith, my loyal human," Oswald would proclaim to him daily. "Soon, our princess will come for us, and we will live the life we were born to!"

" Fuck off, Oswald," The prince would reply gallantly. "I'm trying to sleep."

* * *

Far away from the prince in his tower (in reality, it was only two hours away by dragon) there was the Kingdom of Nothing, which was ruled by the pretty, dimwitted, unmarried Queen Kenna.

(She was kind of a whore, but she was rich and powerful so the people ignored it.)

And because Queen Kenna was a Queen, it came time for her to seek a husband.

(Not as easy as it sounds, by the way.)

So she met with royal families from all over the world, everywhere and anywhere, but they all turned her down. All of them, that is, but the royal family of WimpyMen.

"I have a son," King Henry of WimpyMen told Kenna when she and her advisers met with him, "And he is of marriageable age. I'd be willing to marry him off to you."

"Fantastic!" The queen squealed, adjusting the heavy rubies on her throat. "Let's set the wedding date for spring, shall we?"

"Not so fast," King Henry said, before Kenna's squire, Ratface, could proclaim the news. "You can only marry him if you can rescue him from the tower."

"You meant the son in the tower?" Kenna pouted. "Damn, I thought you meant Francis."

"You can have him, too," The king said dismissively. "Marry him to one of your ladies. But only if you rescue his brother. That is my final offer."

"Kay-kay," Kenna twirled a strand of hair around a finger. "I'll see what I can do. In the meantime," She lowered her voice. "Perhaps I could give you a private tour of the castle?"

King Henry smiled.

* * *

Sometime later, Queen Kenna reappeared, straightening her ruffled skirt and lacing up her corset, and summoned to her throne room one of her closest friends and strongest knights.

"Here's the deal," She said, swirling the wine in the goblet in her hand. "You're going to go and save Prince Sebastian of WimpyMen for me, 'kay? And then I'm gonna marry him and bang his brains out. And in return, I'm gonna let you marry his smokin' hot brother, Francis, and we'll all be happy and married and sexually satisfied. Be back by sundown tomorrow, or I'll have your ovaries on a silver platter. Kay?"

Mary, Warrior Lady, Defender of Scots, and talented knight, bit her lip and nodded.

So Mary, Warrior Lady, Defender of Scots, and talented knight, set off on an epic journey through the Enchanted Forest to the Prince's tower. She brought with her two never-draining flasks of water and her trusty dragon, Clarissa, who had saved her life many a time.

* * *

Meanwhile, in his tower, Prince Sebastian looked out his window and saw the dragon fire, the thorny walls, the screams of the rabid fangirls ("MARRY ME, SEBASTIAN!" "SHUT UP, BITCH, HE'S MINE!"), and he spoke elegantly to Oswald, "Fuck this shit. I'm rescuing myself."

And that was that.

(Only it wasn't, because Oswald let out an ear-splitting shriek and threw himself across the room until he landed on the Prince.)

"NO!" He wailed. "KEEP FAITH, MY FAITHFUL HUMAN! A PRINCESS WILL SEND HER KNIGHT FOR US AND WE WILL BE RESCUED! RESORTING TO SUCH EXTREMES IS COMPLETELY UNNECESSARY!"

"Get the fuck off me, you insane animal," The prince said valiantly, trying to pry Oswald's nails from his shirt. "I'm not spending another second waiting for some princess who couldn't care less about me to decide she wants to get of her ass and send some knight for me. I'm getting out of here, and I'm going to marry who I want, when I feel like it."

Oswald stared at him.

And then, "SUCH BLASPHEMY, MY FAITHFUL HUMAN! NEVER FEAR, I WILL RESTORE YOUR FAITH! I WILL BE YOUR HERO!"

"Oh, for fuck's sake," The prince groaned majestically, and began to pack for his journey out of the tower.

* * *

While the prince dealt with what Oswald called his "Crisis Of Faith", Mary, Warrior Lady, Defender of Scots, and talented knight reached the beginning of the legion of fangirls on dragon back.

Dismounting her dragon, she drew her sword gracefully and bowed. "Hello, ladies. I am here-"

"BITCH, WE KNOW WHY YOU'RE HERE," One of the fangirls (she had dark hair and piercing green eyes) screeched. "YOU'RE TRYING TO TAKE OUR 'BASTIAN FROM US!"

"Well-," Mary shrugged. "Not in so many words."

"HE'S OURS, YOU MAN-STEALING WHORE," another fangirl insisted. "HE LOVES US!"

"Uh-" Mary began doubtfully.

"HE LOVES ME THE MOST," a red-headed fangirl replied, waving a 'Marry me, Bash' sign in the air.

"All of you? Goodness gracious. Have any of you ever met him?" Mary interjected, but she was ignored.

"NO, HE DOESN'T, YOU GINGER BITCH," another red-headed girl screamed. "BASH'S HEART BELONGS TO ME!"

"Aren't you a 'ginger bitch' too..?" Mary tried valiantly, but once again, her protest went unheard.

"OVER MY DEAD BODY!" the original dark-haired one jumped back into the fray. "THE PRINCE IS MY ONE TRUE L-"

"Look, ladies," Mary said, exasperation coloring her gentle tone. "I know you're all desperately in love with Prince Sebastian-"

"WE LOVE HIM MORE THAN LIFE!"

"-and I'm sure he loves you all. But think about it. Would he really want you guys to fight and be unhappy?"

"…..no," the first red-head said sheepishly.

"So you'd be making him unhappy by being unhappy, and you wouldn't want Prince Sebastian to be unhappy, would you?"

"OF COURSE NOT," a dark-skinned fangirl appeared directly in front of her. "WE'D NEVER WANT 'BASTIAN TO BE UNHAPPY!"

"It's just," another blond fangirl sniffled. "We love him so much, you know? So very much."

"It can be hard to be in love," Mary replied diplomatically.

Five more fangirls appeared from the woods, joining the ones standing before Mary.

"And we just want the best for him, because he's the best thing ever!" Another dark-haired fangirl sighed. "Like this one time, Kelli clawed a clump of my hair out cause I said 'Bastian wouldn't like her new haircut, and I went and cried underneath his tower, because my hair's a big self-esteem point for me, you know? And it hurt, having it gone. So I went and cried underneath the window, and he saw me, and he breathed on the glass to make it all misty and drew faces for me until I felt better. Like, isn't that just the best thing ever?"

Mary smiled, touched by the little story. "It is quite nice."

"Well, one time I was trying to ride a wild pony-fish in the river, and it didn't work out so well, so I came back all wet and smudgy and covered in kelpfish, and all the girls teased me 'cause they said 'Bastian would never love a trainwreck like me, but when he saw me, he opened the window and threw me down some of his dry clothes." Another fangirl chimes in, a dreamy, far-away look in his eye.

"And this other time, he wrote me letters for two weeks cause I lost my voice," This comes from the dark-skinned fangirl. "I was all sad because no one would talk to me, so he wrote me stories and shit and sent them down in paper airplanes."

And so Mary, Warrior Lady, Defender of Scots, and talented knight, listened to the fangirls' praises for their prince, and as she listened, she walked forward, the eager crowd of hormonal females surrounding her, until she reached a great silver gate, twisted and black from dragon fire.

"Thank you so much, ladies," She said gently, pushing the gate open. "It's been a wonderful three hours."

"Come back soon!" One of the fangirls called cheerfully after her.

"Yeah- WAIT A MINUTE GUYS, SHE GOT PAST US! SHE'S ONE STEP CLOSER TO 'BASTIAN!" another fangirl cried.

"Eh," Yet another fangirl shrugged. "It's okay. I ship it."

Silence.

And then, "OMFG, TIFFANY, I TOTALLY SEE THAT!"

And so the Mabastian ship was born.

* * *

While Mary, Warrior Lady, Defender of Scots, and talented knight, was fighting her way through the horde of fangirls, Prince Sebastian was gathering up his final supplies for his journey out of the castle.

"Well, Oswald," He said gallantly. "It's time to blow this shithole."

Oswald wept, clutching at the Prince's shoes and clawing frantically at the floor. "NO, MY PRINCE! YOU MUST NOT GIVE UP FAITH!"

"For all things holy, Oswald, I never had faith," The Prince growled (although he growled very kindly.) "I'm done being a bitch and waiting this out. I wanna see the world, have adventures, fall in love. I don't wanna be stuck on some stuffy throne in a stuffy tower where all my heart belongs to the land. So are you coming with me, or what?"

Oswald made a mad dash for the Door To The Tower, but Sebastian beat him there.

"C'mon, Ozzie," He grinned roguishly, picking up the protesting fox and carrying him under his arm as he stepped into the bright sunlight. "We've got a thorn wall to get across."

* * *

Mary, Warrior Lady, Defender of Scots, and talented knight, proceeded with caution, hoping that she could sneak past the dragon and rescue the Prince without having to fight it.

However, as she tiptoed across the charred black land, she heard a rumble.

"Blast," She swore to herself, and drew her sword again.

"WHO DARE DISTURBS THE SLUMBER OF SMAUG THE GREAT AND POWWWWWWERFUL?" a deep and reptilian voice bellowed, and from across the field, Mary could see a massive black dragon, staring at her with pointed malice.

"It is- wait, Smaug the Great and Powerful? Aren't you in another realm?" Mary questioned the dragon.

"NOT 'GREAT AND POWERFUL', YOU FOOL, GREAT AND POWWWWWWERFUL," The dragon explained at an unnecessarily loud volume. "SMAUG IS MY COUSIN, YO."

"Oh, well, then, my sincere apologies," Mary offered, trying to be courteous. "It's just that you remind me of him. All great and, uh, powerful, and scaly."

Smaug the Great and Powwwwerful perked up. "SCALY? REALLY?"

"Certainly!" Mary cried. "Why, I can't see any missing ones!"

"THAT'S BECAUSE I DON'T HAVE ANY," Smaug the Great and Powwwwerful said proudly. "MY COUSIN, SMAUG THE GREAT AND POWERFUL, IS MISSING A SCALE, DUE TO THOSE STUPID LAKETOWN PEOPLE, BUT I'VE GOT ALL MY SCALES! AUNTIE ALWAYS SAID I WAS THE BETTER SMAUG!"

"Definitely," Mary said, noticing the thorn wall directly behind the dragon for the first time and slowly inching towards it. "You're so much shiner than he is."

"I KNOW!" the dragon said gleefully.

"And those claws though," Mary whistled appreciatively. "They're so sharp."

"I KNOW," The dragon said, lifting its paw to watch its claws glisten in the sunlight. "MY CLAWS ARE DA BOMB."

"...okay, then," Mary said delicately.

"NO SERIOUSLY," The foolish dragon crowed, putting one gigantic hand in front of Mary so she could see the countdown clocks ticking away on them. "MY CLAWS ARE ACTUALLY BOMBS."

"Why the hell-" Mary began, but corrected herself, remembering that vulgar language was not suitable for a lady. "I see."

Suddenly, with the speed of a kelpfish going upstream in the sodapop river in Wow-Wow-Wuffee Land, an idea came to her.

"Are there any other explosive parts of you?" Mary asked carefully.

* * *

Prince Sebastian neared the thorn wall, but before he could cross it, he was stopped by an invisible barrier.

"Seriously?" He shook his head magnanimously. "What's up with this?"

"It's a sign," Oswald said desperately from the Prince's travel bag. "It means you should go back to the Tower."

The Prince ignored him.

"Hm," He thought aloud. "If the barrier's invisible, it must be magic. If the barrier's magic, what's to say everything beyond it isn't magic too? What if it's all an illusion."

Oswald yelped from the bag. "YOU'RE THINKING ABOUT THIS TOO HARD JUST GO BACK TO THE TOWER BEFORE YOU HURT YOURSELF."

"Aha!" The prince cried. "I've solved it!"

He grasped the travel bag and stood before the barrier. Carefully, cautiously, he placed his palm against it.

"Are you real?" He whispered to himself, before pressing on it roughly.

The barrier fell outwards, shattering into thousands of large clear shards, and as the Prince looked at them, he could see only one reflection. Not his own, but that of a girl, with dark tresses and a beauty that struck his heart, who stood confidently in front of the great dragon.

He looked up, and he saw her, the sun illuminating her from behind until she appeared to be a goddess.

She looked around the dragon and saw him; they made eye contact.

"See, Ozzie," the Prince whispered. "This is why I left the tower."

* * *

"...And my ear cavities are made out of baking soda, and my earwax is vinegar, so I always know when I'm getting too waxy by( the explosions!" The dragon boasted, and Mary hid her yawn.

"Very interesting," She murmured. "I wonder if I could see one of your claws? Just to experience how truly magnificent it is."

"CERTAINLY, FAIR MAID!" The dragon cried, and Mary winced at the return to CapsLock speech.

The dragon brandished its claws forward, and Mary took one in her hand, holding it carefully. Now, she just had to keep the dragon occupied while she detonated its claws.

"So," She began. "I'm sensing you've got some inferiority issues when it comes to your cousin, Smaug."

The dragon stared in silence for a moment before bursting into acid tears. "I DO! EVERYONE LIKES SMAUG BETTER, EVERYONE FEARS HIM MORE, AND ALL HE DOES IS SLEEP IN THAT STUPID DWARVEN HALL AND LAY ON GOLD. I ACTUALLY PROTECT THE PRINCE."

"I see," Mary said, slowly bringing the time on the claw closer to zero. "That must be very hard for you."

"IT IS!" Smaug the Great and Powwwwwerful wailed, but before he could continue his lament, two things happened at the same time.

The first, was that Mary brought the claw timer to one second.

The second, was that the sky behind the dragon fell in on itself, and beyond it, Mary could see only one thing:

The Prince.

(Boy, was he a catch.)

* * *

"Hello," The prince breathed in awe, his words for once matching their descriptors.

"...hi," Mary squeaked, her voice betraying her pounding heart.

And that was it.

The beginnings of love.

"So," Mary continued, a blush rising on her cheeks as the Prince looked at her, captivated. "Do you wanna take a ride on my dragon?"

Inside the pouch, Oswald wailed, "NOOOOOO!", but his cries fell on deaf ears.

* * *

"So, wait," The Prince said on the dragonride back to Queen Kenna's castle. "You came to rescue me?"

"So you could marry Queen Kenna, yes," Mary said, keeping her eyes on the sky above her and not on the dashing prince behind her. "Although I doubt you actually needed the rescue."

"Just because I didn't need it doesn't mean I don't want it," The prince said, and the feeling of his breath on her ears made her shiver. "Especially coming from you."

"SO QUEEN KENNA," Mary said hastily, trying to ignore how charming the Prince was. "SHE'S REALLY COOL."

"Or, we could do CapsLock speech," The Prince said amusedly. "That's an option."

"OR WE COULD GO BACK TO THE TOWER," Oswald interjected, poking his head out from the bag.

"Anyway, my mission was to rescue you and deliver you to the castle, where you will marry Queen Kenna and I will marry your brother, Francis."

"Wait, you're marrying Frannie? What?" The prince said, indignation in his tone.

"Yes, I am," Mary replied nervously. "Is there a problem with that?"

"Nothing," the prince mumbled. "If he's the same as he was when I left, he just doesn't deserve you."

Inside the pouch, Oswald sighed.

* * *

When they arrived at the castle, Prince Sebastian took hold of Mary's arm before she was able to depart to debrief her Queen.

"Please," he said to her. "Please, give me your name."

"For what purpose?" She replied. "It is only a name, and soon it will be forgot as you say your vows to the queen."

"I will not forget," he said to her, and his hand moved from her arm to cup her face. "I will never forget it."

She paused. "Mary," she finally began. "My name is Mary, and I rescued you in service to my liege, so that you could marry my Queen and unite our kingdoms. Not for..." she drifted off.

"You know, I didn't really want to be rescued," He said, and his thumb traced slow circles on her cheekbones. "I didn't want to marry some princess who couldn't care less about me. I wanted choice. Freedom. Love."

Mary swallowed, and then with an aching feeling in her gut, turned away from his hand.

"SO," Oswald said tentatively. "I GET THAT THIS IS AN EMOTIONALLY CHARGED MOMENT BUT CAN SOMEBODY PLEASE LET ME OUT OF THIS POUCH."

* * *

"Well, hey, there, hot stuff," Kenna whistled appreciatively as she gazed at Prince Sebastian. "Aren't _you_ totally fuckable."

If the Prince noticed how Mary's hands tightened on her spear in a moment of jealousy and anger, he gave no hint as he strategically replied, "Uh...thanks?"

"And so eloquent, too," Kenna squealed, and clapped her hands together. "Kay-kay. So last night I was thinking to myself, and I thought to myself, self (yeah?), why do you want a spring wedding? Why do you want to wait at all? And then I realized, I didn't." Kenna's face is gleeful. "The wedding's tomorrow!"

"Tomorrow?" Mary burst out.

"Tomorrow?" King Henry said cautiously.

"TOMORROW?" Oswald screamed.

"You're a crazy bitch," Prince Sebastian noted eloquently. "I'm out."

King Henry promptly fainted.

* * *

"You will sign that marriage contract," The newly revived King railed on in front of Sebastian, who sighed and blew on his nails.

"Um, no, I won't," Bash shrugged. "I didn't leave one tower just to get locked in another one."

"You will be king!"

"I never wanted to be king of our own land; why the hell would that change, just because it's Queen Kenna's?"

"You'll have lands unimaginable! Power at your fingertips!"

"Power and lands mean nothing to me, Father," Bash ran a hand through his hair. "Nothing. My loyalty and thoughts lie with my family. My real family, not that bitch of a stepmother and Frannie."

"If you refuse this, I will have you disowned! Francis will be king!"

Bash snorted. "Please. We're still trying to figure out if Francis has ovaries or not, okay? He's too much of a bitch, and you know it."

"THEN I WILL DENY YOU THE THRONE AND LIVE FOREVER."

"A king already said that," Bash smirked. "One in a far away land. And he recanted his statement."

"FRANCIS!" The king bellowed desperately. "COME AND TALK TO YOUR BROTHER."

"You say that like he's my mother," Bash remarks. " "Honey, come and talk to your son!' "

The king threw up his hands and stalked out.

* * *

"Whoa, whoa, whoa, hold the hell up," Queen Kenna swirled the wine in her glass and leaned forward. "You want me to postpone the wedding? Why in god's name would I do that?"

"So you'd have the time to plan an extravaganza the whole kingdom could be a part of," Mary said desperately. "A show of unification and strength."

"But what about the Prince? I'd have to wait to tap that," Kenna pouted. "I don't want to wait to tap that."

_Clearly, you sex-crazed lunatic,_ Mary thought, but she kept a calm facade. "Perhaps you could find another to...fill your need."

"Did you _see_ him?" Kenna raised her eyebrows. "Sweetie, I don't want another."

Mary's grasp on the hilt of her sword tightened and she growled.

Queen Kenna sweatdropped.

* * *

Unfortunately, the Queen could not be swayed.

Fortunately, Sebastian could.

"I'll say this again, really slowly, and I'll even enunciate. I. Am. Not. Marrying. Her." The prince said, low anger lacing his voice.

"YOU ARE BEING SO STUBBORN." His father cried.

"Still not happening."

"Sebastian," Francis tried. "Think about what's best for our kingdom."

"That's _your_ job, little bro. And good job on the knitting work, it's really lovely."

"Sebastian," Catherine commanded him through the MMC (Magic Mirror Comm) his father set up. "You will-"

"Why the hell," The Prince said regally, "Would I listen to what you had to say, when you're the one who got me into this mess in the first place. Don't you have puppies to terrorize or something?"

"MY FAITHFUL HUMAN-"

"Fuck off, Oswald!"

* * *

"I cannot believe this!" Queen Kenna fumed. "That little shit canceled the wedding! After I rescued him!"

"Well, technically," Mary said, barely concealing her glee. "I rescued him."

"Details," Kenna said with a wave of her hand. "DETAILS. NOW I HAVE TO MARRY FRANCIS AND I WANTED SEBASTIAN AND I'M NOT GOING TO GET TO TAP THAT AND AGOWUFWBFOWBWOBA;FWOFBFBWFBWUFWUOFBOUFW I HATE LIFE."

"Calm down, your majesty," Mary said soothingly. "I'm sure you and Francis will make lovely golden-haired babies with a lot of estrogen that crave sex the moment the exit the womb of their fucking insane mother." She paused.

And then, "Did I actually just say that out loud?"

"Well put, my lady," Ratface said appreciatively.

* * *

And so it was that the Prince who was rescued from his tower did not marry the Princess who sent her knight to save him (she was kind of a whore.), and instead longed to be with the knight she sent to save him.

Of course, this knight was a chick, and she was understandably shocked at the Prince's proposal.

"You want to _what_?" Mary exclaimed.

"I want to leave," The Prince repeated slowly. "And I want you to come with me. We don't have to get married, or anything, but- I dig you, okay? And I wanna see where that goes."

"That's crazy," Mary said.

"All I need is a yes or no," The prince replied.

Mary paused.

And then, "Yes."

(Somethings, dear reader, are just meant to happen, and there's no fucking point in fighting them.)

* * *

AND THEY LIVED HAPPILY EVER AFTER.


End file.
